


Weak and Drunken Hearts

by twitchtipthegnawer



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Abuse of Authority, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, BDSM, Blood and Violence, Blowjobs, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Issues, Corporal Punishment, Dominance and Submission, Enemies to Lovers, I'm Going to Hell, Id Fic, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Murder, One Night Stands, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Roleplay, Sentinel/Guide, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Sexual Assault, Shibari, Sorry Josh, Trauma Recovery, Trippy Goddamn Sex Scenes Seriously WTF, Urban Fantasy, i promise they get more sexy and less weird later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5706073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchtipthegnawer/pseuds/twitchtipthegnawer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh is an anomaly, a Guide more powerful than any the world has seen before- at least, as far as he can tell. But power attracts those who would abuse it, and if there's one thing Josh's mother taught him, it's that he's not meant to be hurting people.</p><p>And so he hides, spends his years lashing down his powers, until suddenly he can't anymore. Even that does not come without its price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Online

When he’s young he hears it so often. “Josh is such a sweet boy.” “He cares so much for others.” “He’s just sensitive, that’s all.” Innumerable permutations. They make him glow with pride, his tiny chest puffing out at praise and dismissal both; he’s the best at calming kids crying on the playground, the best at making his parents realize that arguing really _isn’t_ as important as reading him bedtime stories. He knows it, and he’s proud of it.

It’s not just his talent for sympathy that gets him attention, but his appearance too; he’s small for his age, his round cheeks always bright with spots of color, his smile nearly omnipresent. His milk-chocolate brown hair falls in soft ringlets around his face, framing it sweetly. Hazel eyes stare out from his small face widely, almost always looking somewhere between wondering and mischievous. 

Somehow, his pranks never get him in trouble, even when they result in broken vases and stained carpets. He floats through four years nearly always happy, hardly having to make a sound before someone comes to attend to him. It’s almost always his mother, her green eyes so much brighter than his own, gentle and kind in a way that makes him want to sink into them. Of course, this means that when he cries it is an event of the sort that no one’s likely to forget soon.

The first time he has a true meltdown he’s at Disney World, his mother nowhere in sight, and he makes his way to the edge of the crowd in a daze, scanning it as best he can from his vantage point so near the ground. When his eyes can’t find her bouncing curls, just a shade lighter than his own, they begin to tear up, and then it’s like a dam breaking.

A woman near him cries out, leans closer instantaneously and scoops him into her arms, bouncing him gently even when he beats his tiny fists on her chest, making a low keening noise in the back of his throat, cognizant only of the fact that _this is not his mother._ He’s so distraught that he doesn’t even notice the others coming, three park employees and a man he doesn’t know leaping to his aide just like the woman, and just like the woman they can do nothing to calm him.

Instinct takes over, deep and feral in the back of his mind, and he finds himself reaching out with a tendril of what feels like he imagines clouds to feel like, fluffy and almost so light as to not be there, but it’s stormy grey and makes his head hurt worse. Still, he pushes it away from his body in a long, thin line, like what airplanes leave behind them high in the sky. He pushes, and pushes, until he brushes up against something that smells like familiarity and Mom’s cornbread.

She materializes from the people around him as if by magic and he reaches out desperately, his sobs turning into heaving breaths, interspersed with hiccups as his mother reassures him and the people around him, her body emanating calm that he knows, even at his young age, is more a result of her being a Guide than because she truly has a calming presence on the strangers.

Still, it works, and within an hour he finds himself smiling up at an actor dressed as Peter Pan, blissfully unaware of the look his mother is giving him, trepidation and dawning realization and something dangerously close to fear.

Months pass without incident, and his mother relaxes gradually, hears the same things he hears and feels an echo of the pride he feels; after all, that’s her boy they’re talking about, her sweet caring boy. She’s all but forgotten Disney World when it happens. Pain, blinding white, lancing up her body from her right leg, making her knees want to buckle. There’s a terrifying second where she looks down at herself and expects to see the bone poking from her shin, and then she hears it.

High, thin keening, a sound that’s been imprinted on her soul from the time she first heard it. Josh lies on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, his hands clutched around his leg, and she only barely registers that the break isn’t as bad as it feels in the feedback she’s getting. He’s distressed, his frail shoulders trembling, not sure why she won’t reach out for him, why his Momma won’t take the pain away.

“Shh baby,” she says, her skin so close to his but not touching and he doesn’t understand _why._ “Hush now, it’ll be okay. Can you do one thing for me, baby?” Josh nods, frantic, he’ll do anything so long as she takes it away. He’s never seen anything his mother couldn’t fix, and the dawning realization that her proximity isn’t making it better is breaking down his sense of reality.

“Is there something in your head baby?” she asks, reaching out with shaking hands and touching her fingertips to his ringlets, wanting to get closer with a strength of desire that is not entirely her own. “Can you see anything?”

Hesitating this time, Josh draws his attention inwards as best he can, with his four year old body still wracked with pain. “C-clouds,” he says, it’s all he can say, and though he doesn’t know it he wouldn’t have been able to see even that were it not for that incident only a few months prior.

“Pull those clouds in, baby,” his mother says, soothing, her voice smooth despite the way her heart is beating double-time. “Keep them close, you hear me? If you can’t keep them close, the pain won’t go away.”

Calling 911 and sitting beside her son while he shakes, his eyes unseeing, turned so intensely introspective that he doesn’t move even when she waves a hand in front of his face, his mother thinks. And hates herself a little for allowing herself to forget about Disney World. And thinks more. By the time the ambulance arrives, paramedics terrified by what they think is a much worse break because of the way the boy seems to have gone into shock, she has a plan.

Once his leg is set and the clouds are no longer roiling within him, he hears his mothers voice, calling but muffled as if she’s very far away. “You can come back now, baby,” she says, and then he can _feel_ her, the soft press of watery hands upwards, through his now gentle clouds. She cradles him in enormous palms, and he thinks maybe they are what the ocean looks like, except the ocean is meant to be blue instead of green, and it’s meant to smell like salt instead of cornbread.

When he opens his eyes he sees the same green in hers, and he smiles, feeling the pain in his leg reduced to a dull ache, encased in its cast. “Thank you Momma,” he says, truly grateful, and he doesn’t understand why that makes her wrap her arms so tight around him that it makes his sides ache to match his leg, why it makes her cry like he had cried.

Josh gives no more thought to it after that, shaking off the accident the way he shook off everything in the world that hurt him, but a week later his mother knocks on his door, quiet and subdued the way she sometimes is after arguments with his dad that he didn’t stop in time. It makes him subdued too, shrinks his smile from the all-consuming thing it was to something that barely turns his lips up at all. “Yes Momma?” he asks, voice as trusting as ever. It twists the knife in his mother’s gut.

Sitting on the ground beside him, she reaches out and pulls him into her lap. He goes willingly, resting his head on her shoulder and pressing his small palms to her stomach. He can feel the worry coming off of her in waves, like the rise and fall of the tide, and he wonders if maybe his dad called and he hadn’t noticed.

She takes a deep breath before speaking, bracing herself as best she can. “Can you still see the clouds, baby?” she asks, and Josh stiffens in her arms for a moment. His first thought is of the pain that had accompanied the last time she’d told him to look for the clouds, but then again they had _saved_ him, so he relaxes again and looks, smiling to find them right where he’d left them.

“Yes Momma,” he confirms, nuzzling his upturned nose into her blouse. It smells sweet, and he hopes she’s baking cookies downstairs.

With his head tucked under hers the way it is, he doesn’t see the look of pain that clouds her eyes. Despite everything, she’d still hoped, but now... now, her only solace is that her husband wasn’t home when Josh had been injured. _At least there’s that._

It takes her a long time to figure out a way to phrase it, but when at last she says, “Do you wanna play a game in them?” he perks up immediately, his eyes shining so brightly when they meet hers that she doesn’t need the nod he gives to confirm. Despite herself, she laughs, just a little.

Clinging to that joy, knowing that she’ll need it soon, she begins her son’s first lesson in being a Guide. “Can you make something to play with?” She pets his hair, working her fingers through tangles that seem to form as quickly as they’re removed.

Josh reaches out with his hands in his mind, fingers in real life twitching to reflect the motion but stopped by his mother’s body. He gently scoops handfuls of cloud, packing them into something very like a warm snowball. “Now we’ve got a ball, Momma,” he says proudly, holding it out in his mind as though she can see it.

Smiling gently, trying not to remember her own training, Josh’s mother shakes her head. “Don’t make it with clouds, baby,” she says, and Josh tilts his head, confused. Does she mean that there can be more than clouds?

He pads around on his small platform, looking up at the sky drenched in sunset oranges and yellows. There’s nothing there save more clouds, not even a sun or a moon for him to try to reach up and tug down. _Down,_ he realizes, and he peeks his head over the edge of the cloud, feeling a wave of vertigo that makes him giggle. Far, far below, he sees a blue roof, and it takes him long moments to recognize the white car sitting beside it, the garden with it’s puffball hydrangeas in blue and purple. _His home._

Tentatively, he reached out with his mind, too frightened of the height to use his hands. He grappled at the basketball in the driveway, feeling his concentration slipping on it like it’s been covered in ice. His dark eyebrows furrow in concentration, wrinkling his forehead until his mother smooths her thumb over it. The real-world comfort grounds him, and he finds himself bringing the ball up quickly, easily.

Placing the basketball beside his discarded cloud ball, he surveys the options with satisfaction. “Now we have _two_ balls,” he proclaims, making his mother huff out another breathy laugh. “This one’s the basketball from outside,” he explains, pointing to it in his mind.

“Very good, baby,” his mother beams at him, and he smiles back, smug and pure and achingly beautiful.

At that moment it occurs to him that he didn’t see those ocean hands beneath him, and he looks down again, worried now. “Aren’t you gonna play with them?” he asks, something plaintive in his tone. His mind is very quiet without the sound his mother brings, like holding a seashell to his ear.

“No,” his mother says, and only willpower keeps the sadness from her voice. “I can’t get in your head unless there’s an emergency, baby. I’m sorry.”

Years later Josh finds out why, sitting in his fifth grade classroom, listening to a lecture that he’d been dreading for weeks and he can’t look away from now. Explanations on how going online feels, the basics of the tower system, things he’s taken for granted his whole life that are clicking into place only now. The words flash on the large screen, one after another, and they burn themselves into his eyes. Bonding. Empathy. Zoning. Sentinels. Guides.

The rest of the day is a blur, until he gets home and lays in his bed and stares at his ceiling, at the greenhouse on a cloud he drew on a small sheet of paper and taped above him, physical solace when mental wasn’t enough. Suddenly, he sits up, then stands, ripping the paper down carelessly. He shreds it, tears falling large and fat down his cheeks, and he can feel the gale-force winds in his mind, always present as his first line of defense, pick up with his distress.

Going online. The moment that a Guide or Sentinel’s powers kicked in, the instant that foreign feelings or subtle sensations would flood in and begin the countdown to a necessary, natural, wonderful bond. The youngest documented person to go online was eleven. If moldy old clay tablets and shaky translations are to be believed, then the youngest person to go online was nine, a week before their tenth birthday.

Never before has anyone gone online at the age of four. Never, outside of mythology, demigods and goddesses who are born with their powers. Josh might be young yet, but he doesn’t fancy himself a demigod. In fact, he feels smaller than ever, now.

For the first time in his life, his distress doesn’t bring his mother immediately. He has to reach out, not with himself but with that tendril of cloud, down and down and down until it can reach the house far below, slink in through the open kitchen window to where she is cleaning. In less than a minute he hears footsteps pounding up the stairs hastily, and he relaxes, drawing his tendril back up to him. The cloud platform feels smaller than usual, unstable.

Her arms around him are comforting as always, though, and he clings to her. He’s so much larger now, but still thinner and shorter than he should be. That has never felt important before, but now he can’t stop thinking about it. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he says, before she can ask what’s wrong.

An awareness that smells like cornbread and sounds like the ocean brushes against his, just lightly, and she slumps against him. “It’s because your shields are holding baby,” she soothes, rubbing his back firmly. He resists the urge to tell her that he’s not a baby anymore. “It’s a good thing. Now, what’s wrong?”

Shaking his head, he tries not to, but he can’t stop the words from spilling from his mouth. “Why did I go online so early?”

Impenetrable defense that his mother is, he begins sobbing in earnest when he feels her duck her head into the side of his, her tears wetting his hair. “Oh, baby,” she says, and it’s the same tone she used when he broke his leg all that time ago, though he doesn’t truly remember it.

“Why,” he asks again, though the word comes out strangled now. Still, he has to ask it, has to know.

“I don’t know,” his mother says, and though he’s heard it from her before it burns in his gut this time, like acid pouring on his sensitive skin. “But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby. You’re special, that’s all.” Her reassurance is a balm on his frazzled soul, her concern/love/protectiveness bathing the sky above his clouds in pinks and purples, but it rings false.

Being a guide comes as naturally to Josh as breathing, and it isn’t much longer before he realizes that he didn’t come online at _four._ He doesn’t cry, this time, but he adds another two layers to his shields. His small cloud platform has become a cumulonimbus, until the only way to see the world beneath it is the glass floor of the greenhouse. The world underneath, to his comfort, doesn’t change; the house is the same as always. A constancy he sorely needs.

Growing older, he realizes things. How good his mother is at keeping secrets. That the amount of time his father spends away from home is unusual, especially for a bonded Sentinel. A Sentinel’s sense of smell is stronger than it has any right to be.

That last truth comes to him in the form of a boy named Richard in his class missing a week of school when they’re fourteen. He comes back different, louder, rowdier, proudly explaining to anyone who will listen what going online feels like. Over and over, their classmates ask him to prove his newfound super-senses, and over and over he does. Josh avoids him, which is easy, because he’s never gotten along with the boy, he’s much too large and something mean glints in his eyes, but.

One day they’re alone in the locker room after school. Josh had gotten detention over drawing on his desk once again, the teacher’s exasperated fondness finally running out. Richard earned it over bloodying a kid’s nose because “he’d forgotten to shower the night before, and I was just reminding him like any Sentinel with a sensitive nose would, ma’am.” They’re meant to be cleaning, but the smell of stale sweat and axe is strong in Josh’s nose, and Richard claimed a headache and had been lying on a bench for twenty minutes.

All of a sudden, Josh turns around and he's _right there._ He backs up one step, two, staring up at the larger boy. For once, Josh’s face isn't set in a smile. “You smell good,” Richard says, his voice already deep and rumbling through the air between them. Josh’s mouth falls open, closes, opens again. He tries to gather his thoughts, to tell Richard to _please_ back up, but then there's a mouth against his and he can't say anything at all.

Richard was a brute in almost everything he did, and kissing didn’t turn out to be any different. He pushes Josh forward until his back hits the open lockers, metal ridges digging into his back parallel to his spine, stinging. He can’t help it; he panics. His hands flail out, but Richard is so much larger than him that he doesn’t notice the blows. Josh grips Richard’s short hair and pulls as hard as he can, only to cry out when Richard does the same to him.

“What the fuck?” He mutters against Josh’s lips, too close for Josh to get away. The curse makes Josh flinch backwards. “I thought I was only supposed to like Guides?” It’s the last word that does it, sending a lance of terror through Josh’s mind that’s whiter than the panic. He does it without thinking, the clouds in his mind flashing with silent lightning. He reaches out and grips a bolt in his hand, and _throws it._

Richard crumbles to his feet, leaving Josh shaking, sick. He runs to the stalls and retches, bringing up cheap school food and bile that scalds his nose. His cries are what bring the janitor, who takes one look at the two boys and immediately reaches for his radio, then rushes to check Richard’s pulse. Josh can’t move from where he’s curled on the ground, can’t do anything but check his shields, over and over again, count his way through the layers.

Officially, Richard had collapsed because of a zone caused by the cleaning chemicals mixed with the usual boy’s locker room smells. Officially doesn’t matter much when everyone in school knows, or at least suspects. The rumor mill is not kind at the best of times, but Josh takes a small solace in the fact that Richard can’t remember kissing him, and therefor can’t confirm anything. “It’s a concussion,” he claims, “I got it when I fell.”

Neither of them believes it, but Richard can’t place why he feels frightened of Josh now, so he never confronts him about it. Josh’s mother doesn’t believe it either, but she doesn’t push him to talk about it any more than Richard does, just holds Josh in her arms night after night, until his tears dry up. It doesn’t even occur to him that his first kiss went to a random Sentinel until two months later.

Spring comes with the sort of slow reluctance that grates on Josh’s nerves, snow melting and then falling and melting again. He finds himself retreating into his mind more often when he’s at home, basking in its perpetual early-summer warmth. It’s this that he’s looking forward to when he walks home, having stayed late at school to help paint a mural (the mural is beautiful, an sunset on cinderblock walls, but he has to double check that he’s alone every time he works on it). He opens the door to his house, opening his mouth to announce his arrival.

Blood on the floor, only a few feet forward in the hallway, stops him. Then he hears the begging and he _runs,_ skidding on the wood floor comedically, nearly falling on his face when he tumbles into the kitchen. “Please,” his mother is on the floor in front of his father, on her knees. Red stains her clothes, but he can’t see where it’s coming from. “Please, no, I was going to tell you-”

Kicking his mother’s ribs, oblivious to Josh standing frozen in the doorway, his father snarls. “ _When?_ How long’ve you been keeping this a secret, bitch? Gotta be a while, I always wondered why I couldn’t stand to put my hands on the little bastard.” Josh hears it in bits and pieces, individual words refusing to resolve themselves into sentences. There’s snow falling through his cloud, to the house below. The garden is dying.

His father falls to the floor much the way Richard had, strings cut from a marionette. Josh’s mother stares at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, eyes gone blank, and then they widen and she twists, taking in Josh in the doorway. A small, wounded sound emerges from her throat, barely audible but it echoes in Josh’s ears, over and over again. “Oh, baby,” she says, and he’s not sure why she sounds like he’s the one who’s injured.

Frozen to the ground beneath his feet with the ice still swirling in his mind, he doesn’t move as his mother crawls to his father, touching two fingers to his neck. Inhaling sharply, she pulls back as if she’s been bitten by a snake, as if his father had struck her again. He’s not moving though, not even to breathe. Josh unfreezes.

Rushing to his mother’s side, hands fluttering over her, not sure where is safe to touch, he tries to ignore the tears slipping down his cheeks. “Oh, oh no,” his mother says, and she sounds _sad,_ not frightened, not pained. “You weren’t meant to see this.” Her hand, coated in her own blood, cups his cheek gently. “Can you get the lockbox on the mantle, baby? Can you do that for me? Don’t touch it with your hands, use your sleeves.”

Josh nods on autopilot, stands, and spares a moment to be thankful for the chilly weather outside as he tugs his sleeves over his hands. The lockbox is heavy, metal, and it thunks to the tile beside his mother with barely a clatter. She takes it in her bare hands, smearing blood on it, and keys in the code with an ease that spoke of having done this before. She withdraws the gun, then looks at Josh sadly, her green eyes swimming with unshed tears.

“Look away for me,” she says, hands clenched on unyielding metal. “Go upstairs to your room, call 911. Tell them that your parents were fighting, okay baby?” It’s not okay, but Josh nods anyway, wobbles to his feet and takes the stairs slowly, one, two, three.

The gunshot rings out on the fifth, and then he’s racing up, trying to escape the smell of iron and gunpowder and urine from downstairs. His cell shakes in his hand so badly that it takes him three tries to type as many numbers in. Before the dispatcher can say more than one syllable he’s crying into the phone. “M-m-my father,” he says, “my father, he, Mom-”

“Slow down son,” the dispatcher says, infuriatingly calm. How can he be, with the blood spreading downstairs where Josh can’t see it but he _knows it’s there._ “What’s your emergency?”

“Ambulance,” he spits, fury and the sickening feeling of helplessness warring in him. He checks his shields. “Mom’s bleeding, I don’t know- father was hitting her and-”

“What’s your address, son?” The dispatcher asks, and if he calls Josh “son” one more time Josh is going to go to the station and strangle him himself. The thought makes him heave, nearly bringing up the bile in his stomach.

He relays the information as fast as he can, and then he hangs up, staring at the phone in his lap, screen slowly flickering into darkness. He doesn’t remember getting to his feet again, walking down the stairs like a zombie. His cheeks are cold where the tear tracks and blood are drying, with no new tears to refresh them. He feels like all the water inside of him has frozen.

Seeing his mother lying on the floor does something odd to his vision, narrows it to something that allows him not to notice when his shoes sink into something wet and squishy on the floor. He sits at her side, fingertips cradling her cheeks, so gently. Her eyelids are closed, but they twitch when he touches her, opening slowly, deliberately. Her pupils are blown wide, but she still smiles to see him. He feels the ocean of her soul beneath him, and he has a desperate moment of hope that it’ll wash the snow away.

“Be strong, baby,” she says, voice whisper soft, “you’re so, so tough. You’re gonna do great things.” She shudders, blood spraying from her lips. It lands on Josh’s face, sending a constellation of warmth across the cold. “Keep... keep your clouds in.”

There’s nothing to do but nod, twice, vigorously, clinging to the fact that he can still feel the emotions rolling off of her. They’re almost blindingly bright, a hot pink streak in his sky that hurts to look at but he can’t pull himself away. As long as it’s there, she’s okay.

When the ambulance arrives, he doesn’t cry. When paramedics load himself and his mother in, cover his father in a blanket, call the police, he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry during the investigation, he doesn’t cry during the meetings with his case worker, he doesn’t cry when he meets his new foster parents. He doesn’t cry during their funerals. None of these are memorable events, for him, though they may be for others.

What he doesn’t realize is that when he stopped crying, he stopped smiling too.


	2. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everyone who encouraged me, however small a way it might have been. Thanks to you guys, I couldn't wait more than three hours into Friday to post it! So here's to you: [Phantom-Troupe-Wiki](http://phantom-troupe-wiki.tumblr.com), [Sapphicscaly](http://sapphicscaly.tumblr.com), [Raphae11e](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e), [tunnelOFdawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tunnelOFdawn), and [Rustysmom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rustysmom).

Josh leans out of the unfamiliar apartment window, a cigarette between his lips, dangling precariously. The man asleep in the bed behind him rolls over, a low groan in his chest. Josh doesn’t look back at him, instead staring up at the skyscrapers surrounding them, the lights in their windows almost like the stars he can’t see through the pollution.

The castle in his mind is dark tonight, muted. It’s blessed relief, though he knows with a bitterness that the luck of being so far away from any Sentinels is just that- luck. It won’t hold, especially not in a city, but at least it lasted long enough for him to enjoy himself, for once. The man on the bed behind him had been a good fuck, strong and broad and thick like Josh preferred. Pity he’d have to leave before the man woke up.

Grasping the cigarette between two fingers, Josh puffs out a ring of smoke, watching it float over the city absently. He remembers what Ruth had said, about getting him to try e-cigs, and once again wrinkles his nose at the thought. He loves the brittle paper and leaves between his teeth, wouldn’t give them up for anything.

He stays out there until the fire reaches the filter, and then he drops the stub, watching it fall down, down, down into the dark. It bounces off of someone’s umbrella, then falls to the wet cement beneath, extinguished instantly. Josh stares at it dispassionately for another moment before he heads back inside, his skin several degrees colder than the room, still smelling of lube and sex and sweat. He hates it.

Gathering his bag from where he’d carelessly discarded it the evening before, Josh glanced at the clock. 6:22. He doesn’t allow himself to wince at the thought of being at work in under two hours, instead scrawls a note with his careless handwriting on a scrap of receipt, leaving it on the bedside table. _Thanks for the fun, see you around._ The same thing he always says.

He heads down the rickety stairs slowly, in no hurry to return to his own shit-hole apartment only a few blocks away. Granted, this one isn’t much better, but it isn’t _his,_ which makes it more tolerable somehow. He flicks a ringlet of hair from his eyes, reminding himself to get it cut soon, or at least to take his kitchen scissors to it. Whenever the curls get long they get out of control, riotous and _feminine_ in a way that he doesn’t need. His hips are already bad enough, round with that softness that marks him as a twink, even at twenty.

Or that marks him as a Guide. But he would never be _that,_ not anymore. The plants in his greenhouse stir with a breeze only they can feel, and he quiets them, reminding them he has work in the morning. Morning being a relative term, at this hour, but still. Soon.

The walk home feels far too short, but once he’s showered and dressed, stared in the mirror at the smooth jaw that never needs to be shaved, and eaten breakfast, there’s almost no time left before work. He lights another cigarette on the way there, not bothering with a cab today. It’s too close for the subway to be really justifiable, and he doesn’t have the cash this month to spare on something petty like an extra ten minutes of rest before work.

Trash litters his path, candy wrappers and cardboard and, when he takes a shortcut through an alley, discarded needles and syringes. He watches his own trail through the disorganized streets from the aerial view of his castle, above even the highest spires of sky scrapers. He is no more than an ant from there, and it’s comforting to feel so insignificant in a way that has nothing to do with his actual height.

Going to the back door of the diner and juggling the handle, Josh waits patiently for Ruth to open it, knowing she’s already there. He snubs his cigarette against the side of the building, dropping it on the ground to mingle with the dozens scattered on the doorstep. The door opens with a creak that bespeaks how close it is to falling off it’s hinges and Ruth’s big, brown eyes peek around the edge of it, almost a full foot above Josh’s head. “Password,” she says, imperious.

“Go fuck yourself?” Josh offers in a deadpan drawl, getting a laugh for his troubles and an open door. The diner is still empty, the front windows shuttered, but Josh can hear the sounds of grease sizzling behind him. “Dan’s already in?” He asks, hanging his coat on the little hook beside Ruth’s. They don’t have lockers, not in a cheap place like this.

“Yup,” she hops on the counter beside the cash registers, fiddling with the little button between her legs that will bring tower-trained guides if pressed to break up any trouble that breaks out in the diner. _The tower takes it’s endorsements very seriously,_ Josh thinks with a snort. “Guess he wanted to get some shit done early so he can have an actual, y’know, lunch break.”

Josh snorts again, can’t stop himself. “If only waiters could do the same thing,” he says, making Ruth grin.

“And cashiers,” she adds, her wispy, mousy hair floating around her head in a halo of frizz and broken ends. Josh is fond of her in a way that he’s fond of very few people, partly because she’s a very weak guide who nevertheless tries her hardest to use her empathy to help people, and partly because she’s so _grounded._ He’s certain that if he were to look into her heart, it’d be a cave.

“Nah, not cashiers,” he needles her, just to see her smile widen. “You gotta _earn_ your breaks.”

She sticks her pierced tongue out at him, her eyes scrunching shut for a moment. “Whatever, asshole,” she hops back down and glances at the clock. “Prepare yourself big boy, the gross ones are gonna be arriving soon.”

Shuddering exaggeratedly, Josh begins to help Ruth slide the metal shutters back up over the front windows. “Oh no, not the _gross ones,_ ” he says, feigning disgust mostly to mask the dread that slowly wells within him every time he has to do this.

A tower-certified diner hadn’t been his first choice of job, but he’d learned a long time ago that Guide instincts weren’t as easy to avoid as that. Counterintuitive as it was, low-key exposure to Sentinels kept his internal drive to sooth them mollified. When he’d once spent a month avoiding them studiously, taking sudden turns and about-faces, he’d learned the price the hard way. The memory of wandering through stinking alleyways, spreading muck and oily water and garbage through his hair and along his skin to hide the pheromones pouring off of him always served to make him feel sick.

Within half an hour of opening there are already people wandering in, most taking carry-out, except those few young Sentinel and Guide couples who are looking into a prospective bond. It always churns Josh’s gut to see them, but it’s better than a distressed Sentinel wandering in; that’s only happened once, and when it did he nearly had a heart attack. The only thing that had saved him was Ruth’s Guide pheromones pouring out alongside his, drowning his out.

Falling into the haze that always accompanies his monotonous job (once the anticipatory fear wears off, at least), Josh doesn’t notice the group that comea in until he’s mopping up a spill on the table next to theirs, and inadvertently hears their conversation. “So, what’s the plan again?”

“God dammit,” a gruff, older voice responds. Josh resists the urge to turn and look at the man’s face, suspecting instinctively that he’s Josh’s type. “I told you kid, once the mission briefing is over it’s _over,_ pay attention the first time.”

“But what are we doing here?” The younger voice insists, “I don’t remember lunch being part of the plan.” He sounds almost pouty, and Josh resists the urge to roll his eyes, abruptly reminded of his own whining when he’d first started working shitty jobs to save up money for the day he aged out of the system. The whining wore off fast.

“Can’t we just be getting some fuckin lunch?” came the reply. Yeah, Josh likes the older man. He might not be a sentinel, even, which means Josh could fuck him, but then again... “the plan” had something ominous about it, like a heist or prison break in a movie. He doubts they’re planning anything big, but even being associated with a petty thief is a bit more than Josh’s willing to risk.

Suddenly, a third voice speaks up, this one deeper than either before it. Not with age, nor with anger; in fact, the speaker sounds slightly amused. But something lends it weight, makes it rumble with physical presence, and nearly sends Josh sprawling flat on the table in front of him when his elbow buckles. “It’s never just lunch, with you,” he says, and it’s like fire behind Josh’s eyelids, it _burns,_ what the fuck is that?

Packing up his cleaning supplies in the real world and hurrying away, Josh splits his attention, moving through the motions of his job with a smile on his face while simultaneously scrambling through the stone halls of his castle, rushing to the top, where the observatory waits. It’s small, its dome so close he could almost brush his fingertips against it’s peak, but it’s comforting. He crouches before the telescope, squinting up at the constellations of awarenesses above him. They’re difficult to see right now, clouds obscuring the sky and the blue of the middle of the day dimming their lights, but if he tries hard enough he can still see them, sprawling away from him.

Except that they’re a bit difficult to focus on, at the moment, because there’s what appears to be a moon in his sky. Except it _can’t be,_ because even after his sky started changing throughout the day to match the reality above him, he’s never seen a sun or moon. Never. Yet there it is, surface covered in imperfections, dim because of the conflicting light and his many shields keeping it from noticing him, but there nonetheless. Jack feels sick.

It takes all of his concentration to keep that moon far away, to prevent it from drawing closer and closer to his cloud castle. He isn’t sure what it is about that Sentinel that makes him so powerful, but he knows that it’s _dangerous,_ that it could ruin everything his mother fought for if given half a chance. When at last the strange group leaves he nearly slumps to the ground in relief, can actually feel the tension in his shoulders unravel. It’s unusual for him to show so much emotion outwardly, but he has no energy left to mask it.

“Hey,” Ruth’s voice is never quite soft, but her hushed tone makes it sound gentle all the same. “You ok there? Were they giving you trouble?” She eyes the door, and Josh finds himself abruptly grateful for her concern, even as he’s annoyed with himself for telegraphing so clearly that she noticed.

“Nah,” he says, believable lie rolling off his tongue. “I thought the old guy was eyeing me, is all.”

Laughter rolls off of Ruth’s tongue, though it’s muffled by the way she covers her mouth. She glances around quickly to make sure that none of the other employees have noticed the way they’re slacking off, then slaps him on the shoulder. “Yeah, like that’d bother you,” she tosses back at him, returning to her post. The fact that she was worried enough to step away at all surprises Josh; she’s paying her way through college, so for all that she isn’t naturally inclined towards seriousness, she treats her job like it’s mana from heaven.

Hour blurs into hour after that, Josh doing his best to forget the moon in his sky, still present even after moving so much further away, near the center of the city now. He can’t manage it entirely, but the minutiae of work helps lull him slightly. Lunch is tasteless in his mouth, Ruth’s jokes fall flat in a way that somehow makes them funny again. The familiarity is calming.

He makes it all the way to the end of the day without incident, and he almost thinks he’s in the clear; the moon hasn’t noticed him as far as he can tell, and even if he had slipped up earlier and the man had felt something, his trail would go cold at the diner. Somehow, he kept himself safe. Of course, the moment he pulls on his coat, at last relaxing enough to cast his mind towards dinner plans, is the moment that it happens.

Blinding light, the moon blazing until it no longer resembles a moon, and Josh has just enough time to recognize that what he’d thought were craters were actually sun spots before he can feel a suction like the vacuum of space pulling him, dragging him down-

He lashes himself to the bottom of his cloud at the last possible second, normally fluffy wisps digging into his wrists, his ankles, his waist. His hair stings where it strikes his forehead and cheeks, wind buffeting it into disarray. Dimly he registers himself stumbling in real life, leaning his shoulder against a wall and panting. Somewhere nearby he hears a pained cry, and he thinks it might have been Ruth, but...

His eyes are roving over the city beneath his cloud, rolling wildly, searching for something that he instinctively knows he will recognize when he sees it. And, yes, there it is, an apartment building that’s all sleek glass and steel, expensive enough that he wants to curl his lip at the simple fact of its existence. But there’s no time, and so instead he sends a barely-there shred of cloud down, down, down.

The moon (no, it’s a sun, isn’t it?) hovering directly above the apartment building goes unnoticed until his cloud is in one of the rooms, and suddenly all he can focus on is the smell of pancakes, so strong and slightly stale and cloying with the maple syrup slathered on top which he somehow knows is the pure, natural stuff. _A zone,_ he realizes, recoiling away from the sensation.

But he is as much a slave to his instincts now as always, so he knows what he has to do. In a feat of effort that he doesn’t fully realize should be impossible, he drags his physical body off of the wall, walks on legs that feel wooden to where Ruth is crumpled on the floor, and at the same time he sinks his tiny scrap of cloud into the zoning Sentinel, soothing.

 _It’s not that bad,_ he promises, only a little bit condescending. _You’re a strong one, aren’t you? You can fuckin’ handle it. Dial the smell down, focus on other things. What color are the walls?_ “Ruth?” he manages, voice hoarse. There’s nothing left of his awareness to hope, but if there had been he’d be hoping that she’s too far gone to notice. “You okay?”

Sunny yellow flashes behind his eyelids when he blinks, instead of black. _Sound too,_ he reminds, perhaps not as kind as could be. It works, though, and there’s a moment of ringing like feedback where the concerned voices of his coworkers and Ruth’s keening tune out, and instead he hears that young, unsure voice again, sounding near panicked now. “What happened? What- what did she do, how do I-”

“Stop fucking blubbering,” the gruff voice replies, and there’s a blurry face, like the camera can’t quite focus on him, but Josh sees salt and pepper hair, a trimmed beard, tanned skin. “Damn, she zoned him. Gonna have to dose him again, nothing for it.”

Without his saying so, Josh’s point of view shifts back and forth, like a neck he can’t feel is making his head shake. Under his cloud, he trembles, and his awareness of his physical body fades at last. “No need,” the rumble of it is thunder, an earthquake, and how did Josh not notice the sun drawing closer?

 _I need to go now,_ he realizes in a moment of blind panic, and then reality snaps back into focus with a viciousness unlike any he’s felt before.

“Ruth? Josh?” That’s Dan, his normally stern voice quavering with fear. Josh’s eyes snap up to him, taking in his wet cheeks, evidence of tears he can’t imagine Dan shedding. He looks around at his other coworkers, his mouth dry as a desert. He swallows, throat clicking, and tastes iron; he brings his hand up to his face, fingertips smearing on something wet under his nose. When he looks down, he sees red.

Something moves under his other hand, and his gaze falls back on Ruth, curled on her side on the ground. Her nose isn’t bleeding, he notes, but her eyes are still screwed shut. Still, she’s shifting, drawing herself out of whatever such a strong, unbonded Sentinel’s distress had caused, and that alone is enough to flood Jack’s body with relief. Half dazed, he staggers to his feet, his legs nearly buckling until someone catches him by the upper arm.

Shaking them off, then finding himself unable to stop shaking, Josh blinks slowly. This time he only sees black. “I’m fine,” he says, pushing the sentence with a wave of emotional sincerity that makes his head pound in a way it never has before. “Ruth’s distress did it, that’s all. You uh,” he pauses, takes a deep breath, and forces urgency into the minds around him, concern for Ruth overwhelming whatever they’d felt for him. “Might wanna call the tower,” he mutters, and then he’s leaving as quickly as he can.

Everywhere he turns, he sees Guides fallen in the streets, leaning against lampposts, clutching their Sentinels. That was no _zone,_ he’s certain of it now, no zone could do _this,_ no matter the strength of a Sentinel. A part of him desperately wants to know what it was, not to use it, but because his Guide instincts are beyond repelled, his hindbrain is terrified, and there’s something fascinating in the fear.

After the cacophony of the outside world, tower trucks roaring and people crying and shouting and horns honking at the suddenly stopped cars in front of them, his apartment feels like a tomb. He keeps the lights off, stares at the little red glow of his clock. 5:00, far too early to sleep. Still, he lies on his bed, smelling the detergent he used the last time he washed them. That was weeks ago, but he rarely sleeps in his own bed.

Staring up at the ceiling above him, Josh tries desperately not to think. He counts the cracks spiderwebbing from the corners, then counts the strands of spiderwebs themselves. It doesn’t help. Turning his head, he focuses on the dim, grey light spilling through the window. The clouds above are the strange, uniform sort, like a grey blanket spread over the city. Red would have been more appropriate for today, he thinks, then berates himself. He’s not a morbid middle schooler.

At last, he stands back up, glaring defeat at his hands. He can’t go clubbing any more than he can sleep, but with the roiling of his stomach he can’t eat either. Grabbing a notebook from his dresser and storming out of his room, Josh hunts down his colored pencils, finding them under the couch that’s leaking stuffing from two places. He sits on it heavily, headless of the way it groans under him, and opens to the notebook to a page at random.

Then he draws. Pencils fly over the page, his eyes barely tracking his movements. Teachers had hated him, hated the way he seemed to work on instinct alone and never payed close enough attention to techniques, anatomy, _rules._ He’s never been one for rules, though, so he just kept drawing, until his hands learned the shapes of noses, eyelashes, fingernails.

Beautiful as she is, he doesn’t recognize the woman who forms beneath his fingers now. Her blond hair is drawn up in a severe bun, her cheekbones sharp and high and proud. Grey eyes stare out icily from the page, almost the same shade as the clouds outside. Understated power suit aside, she reeks of money, from her manicured nails to the diamond necklace she wears, somehow not out of place on her otherwise unadorned body.

She’s a guide. He doesn’t know how he knows, but there’s no doubt in his mind. That doesn’t surprise him; after the day he’s had, his instincts have gone haywire, it would almost be more surprising if he couldn’t tell what she was just by looking at her. No, what surprises him is that, despite the way he doesn’t recognize her, something about her nags at the back of his mind.

Try as he might, he can’t place the feeling, and so he flips the page and stares down at his newly blank canvas. He considers drawing the older man whose blurry face he’d seen, but discards the thought almost immediately. What else was there, though? Ruth lying on the ground, clutching her own body as though it’s about to fly apart? His own face, blank with an awareness gone so any blocks away, blood trickling down it?

Blood. He’d forgotten, but when he shifts his mouth he can feel the thin coating of it crack. He drags himself to his feet, shuffles to his bathroom. Turning on the light makes him wince at the brightness, but it’s only a moment before he locks eyes with himself in the mirror and gapes.

There was much, much more blood than he’d thought there’d been. It poured down his shirt in streaks and blotches, ruining it thoroughly. His neck was stained down the front, so dark that it almost looked like he’d been cut. The burst vessels must have refused to clot for quite a while, if it looked this bad. Pulling the shirt off, ignoring the way it tugs uncomfortably where it dried to his chest, Josh turns on the cold water and washes his face.

Long after the water runs clear he keeps washing, feeling aimless. He can’t sleep, his body buzzes with energy, dregs of adrenaline running through him. He can’t eat. He can’t draw. He can’t get the images out of his head, blood and half-realized panic and the rain outside, still nothing more than a mist, chilling the air.

Josh hangs his head, cradling it in fingers icy from the water. He can’t feel his fingertips.

\------------

Ethan Rey does not often find himself confused. Angry, tense, frustrated, lonely, those are all familiar. But confusion is unusual, and so he’s focusing on everything else coiling inside him ferociously as he listens to the bumbling idiocy that is his newest teammate.

“But what do you mean a Guide pulled you out? There wasn’t any other Guides nearby, you told us that. Did you overdose? Did you-” Brian is nearly pulling his thin, black hair out with the frenzy he’s whipping himself into. _Good,_ Ethan thinks sullenly, _combovers aren’t attractive on pretty-boy hipsters, let alone thirty year old newbies fresh off the desk._

“Stop blubbering,” Benedict snaps, and Ethan spares a moment to be thankful for his no-nonsense attitude. What he’d do without Benedict, he doesn’t know. With nearly forty years of experience in the towers’ special enforcement, he wears his knowledge in the scars that cross his thickly muscled arms and legs, and if he’s getting a bit soft in the middle it does nothing to hinder him from getting a job done well.

“It just- it just doesn’t make any _sense,_ ” Brian protests again, something pleading in his gaze. Ethan feels uneasiness stir in his gut, the confusion rearing its ugly head again. _It really doesn’t, does it?_

“It felt like a Guide,” Ethan repeats, leaning back in his seat. The car is black, sleek inside and out, and spacious enough that even with his and Benedict’s large frames filling the front there’s room to spare. It helps that Brian is small and mousy, despite the pudge around his stomach. “Like there was someone in there reminding me to dial down my senses. Got the hell out of dodge as soon as I was cognizant again, though.”

Benedict’s omnipresent frown deepens at that. “I’m not calling you a liar, boy,” he says, grumbly the way he gets when he doesn’t want to say what he’s going to say but knows he doesn’t have any other choice. “But Brian back there is right. No Guide should be able to pull you out of a zone like that without touching you, not even a strong one.”

“Jesus,” Brian exclaims, semi-hysterical. “See, I told you! My first mission out and already we’re dealing with this, with this-”

“You didn’t sign up for this cause it’d be easy,” Benedict’s voice is nearly a growl, and finally Brian’s mouth snaps shut, his hands falling from his hair to his lap, fingers curling fitfully. “There’s always an explanation,” Benedict kept his eyes on the road, but there was something to the tilt of his brows that made Ethan think he was casting his memory back on the incident, trying to see it from a different angle.

Hoping that he’d figure it out soon, Ethan stares out the side window at the buildings flying by, old brick and cinderblock and steel and glass under the faint reflection of his blond hair, pulled back in a tight pony tail, his pale face like a ghost in the glass. He’s always liked visiting cities, wished he could stay longer, but his job doesn’t allow for it. That’s fine, it’s important that he get things done, but he still wishes sometimes, in quiet moments like these.

It’s another fifteen minutes of Brian’s quieting breathing and dull thumps from the (nearly) soundproofed back of the car before Benedict speaks again. “The way I figure it,” he says slowly, considering each word before he lets it fall into the air, “there’s two possibilities. The first is that you’re dragged some poor Guide into your head with those fucking ridiculous powers of yours.”

Benedict pauses, pursing his lips, but Brian and Ethan both sit and say nothing in response. “The other is that she wasn’t trying to zone you.”

Ethan chews over that information in his head. If she wasn’t trying to zone him, to get herself an opportunity to escape, then what was she doing? “It’s the second one, isn’t it?” Brian says hesitantly from the back. Ethan sits up straight and turns his head to eye his companion, somewhere between incredulous and questioning.

“You heard the call, right?” Brian asks, suddenly nervous. “All those Guides that collapsed, I don’t think they’d do that just cause you were zoning. You’re powerful, sure, but...” Benedict hums, obviously considering his words, and Ethan stares at him next.

It’s all very confusing. He shudders, remembering the foreign presence in his mind, the way it felt like high-altitude winds and rain before it hit the ground. For all the coldness of it, it had been... pleasant. The thought doesn’t comfort him, however, and as they drive from the city he finds that for once he is eager to be gone.


	3. Lying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!! You know what would be cool? You could comment with headcanons or [send them to me on tumblr](http://ptsdkvothe.tumblr.com/ask) and I’ll tell you if they’re true, false, or a spoiler if revealed! HCs can be about specific characters or the world in general.

Difficult to admit as it is, Josh is stalling. He likes to think he’s above that, the delaying of the inevitable, but here he is on his third cigarette, loitering just down the street from the diner. At this rate he’s going to be late for work, but he can’t find it within himself to care. He shouldn’t have come anyway, should just have quit after yesterday, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do that either, for some godsforsaken reason.

So here he is, on his third cigarette, feeling the heat of it flooding his lungs with poison. It feels good, bracing, but just as he’s steeling himself to take the dozen steps necessary to bring the diner into view he feels a hand on his shoulder, smacking harder than is strictly friendly. “Hey buster,” Ruth says, friendly tone full of steel. “We need to talk.”

Josh closes his eyes, resignation warring with something pathetically close to despair. Once he’d gotten the blood off of himself the night before he’d been able to smell the Guide pheromones he’d poured out, and while the distress of the many other Guides on the street seemed to mean that his scent had gone unnoticed the same way the blood had, he’d wondered about what it had been like in the diner. Only the employees had been in there, and while most of them weren’t either Guides or Sentinels...

Hoping against hope that he’s guessing wrong, Josh shoots back, “how about we talk at work? Y’know, so we don’t get fired?”

Ruth’s smile wilts, slowly, makes Josh’s chest ache. “If you were worried about being late, you’d be in there already,” she observes, and Josh resists the urge to shrug her off. He doesn’t have many friends, and he doesn’t intend to cast this one off unless he has no choice.

“Come on,” she says, and this time it’s all steel, a knife twisting deeper in Josh’s chest. Still, he follows her into an alley that he knows as intimately as every other corner of the city. It’s almost always abandoned at this time of day, and he wonders if Ruth knows that as she turns to face him, brown eyes almost black in the gloom.

“What happened, yesterday?” she asks, and he knows she doesn’t miss his wince.

Measuring his words carefully, Josh replies, “the news says it was a freak accident. A new machine they were building that malfunctioned and put out Sentinel pheromones or some shit. How the hell am I supposed to know what that means?”

It’s hard to lie to a Guide without using his own empathy, even for him, and so he sticks to half-truths. Even so, Ruth’s gaze turns sad, drops from his own to the filthy pavement between them, full of cracks and desperately struggling weeds. “We collapsed,” she says, something in her tone telling Josh that she wants to be wrong, isn’t sure if she can handle being right. “Both of us.”

“Yeah, so?” Josh tries to keep his tone sardonic, not betraying an inch of the turmoil making his clouds roil. It’s disturbingly easy. “It hurt like a son of a bitch, don’t get me wrong, but I’m fine. What the fuck’s the problem?”

Ruth hesitates, then shakes her head. “Josh, you collapsed. Like me and Tyler and all those other Guides,” she looks up again, fear making her eyes even wider than usual, but her voice doesn’t shake.

Shrugging with all the nonchalance he can feign, Josh swallows down the stinging pain that her words had caused. _Tyler,_ so small, the same height as him, always smiling at even the nastiest customers, never forgetting a coworker’s birthday- and he had forgotten about xem. Entirely. “Again, so what? You’re always saying I’m your best friend, maybe it was cause of that.”

She shakes her head, but it’s hesitant, unsure. Josh clings to that, the small hope it gives him. “I didn’t hear of anyone else who wasn’t a Guide doing that,” she points out.

“That doesn’t fucking mean it didn’t happen, does it? It’s not like I just curled up in the fetal position anyway, I could still talk and shit. Just got a massive dizzy spell, and gods know that doesn’t make a very interesting story.” Ruth nods, thoughtful, gaze turned inwards. Josh feels her steady, solid awareness brush his and sends out a slow, subtle pulse of _sincerity,_ almost without thinking about it.

“Okay,” Ruth says, drawing out the vowels like she’s tasting them on her tongue. “It’s damn suspicious though.” Josh rolls his eyes, relief making the motion truly relaxed.

He takes her wrist in his small hand, knowing that his grip is weak enough for her to break it easily. When she doesn’t, it makes his chest feel like someone took the knife and replaced it with nice, numbing anesthetic, complete with that weird swelling feeling. “Whatever, can we get to work already?”

“Yeah,” Ruth says, looking more and more sure, “yeah, okay.” They make their way to work, Josh letting go of her even before they make it to the door. Still, his hand feels warm, and it’s enough to carry him through the morning, the rude customers and snotty kids smearing condiments over the tables.

Josh doesn’t have many friends, truth be told. There are some who Josh is certain would call him _their_ friend, but for him to extend that measure of trust towards someone else... well, it’s rare. And even in Ruth’s case, it hadn’t been intentional; she has a way of slamming into people’s hearts like a rockslide, impossible to fight.

To his surprise, he found that he hadn’t minded, all those years ago. Ruth gave without expecting anything in return, but neither did she treat him like a dumping ground for her complaints and problems. They’re equals, and that alone is worth a lot. Being afraid of losing that had been one of the main things that had made him hesitate today; with that out of the way, the weight on his shoulders is lessened.

Lessened, but not gone. He still can’t quite explain what had happened yesterday, what had made that insanely powerful Sentinel so profoundly distressed. What the hell had “the plan” been, that it had resulted in a city of Guides in pain?

Distracting himself from the worry gnawing at him, Josh decides to take care of another of his mistakes from yesterday. “Hey,” he mutters at Tyler, “want me to take one of your tables?”

Tyler looks up at him in surprise, xer eyes wide. “Huh? How come?” Xe’s hands shake, just slightly, and it makes Josh’s heart ache. Xe’s a more powerful Guide than Ruth, and Josh realizes with a jolt that the incident yesterday had hit xem harder than it had hit her. For his part, he’d felt almost normal after a shower and sleep, but he’s a bit of a freak.

“You look like shit,” he says truthfully, taking in xer unbrushed red hair and the bags under xer eyes. “Sneak a nap or something, I got this.” Josh walks away and does just that, not giving xem a chance to argue.

At some point the night before, the sun had disappeared from his sky, fading away as it moved further and further from his city. He hadn’t wanted to notice it, but he couldn’t help it; the tiny scrap of cloud he’d placed in it hadn’t dissipated yet, and it had tugged at him until it was too far to reach. He doesn’t really worry about _that,_ since he knows from experience with jackass Sentinels who got themselves into emergencies in his vicinity in the past that the tiny scrap of cloud is already gone.

Still, it’s hard to shake the residual feeling of it grasping for him. Like feeling waves wash over him while he lies in bed after a day at the beach, it lingers, echoing. Each time he feels it, he wants to rip it out of his chest; he hadn’t liked the feeling of the sun so close, risking burning through his shields, at all. He doesn’t think it actually could, not if he puts effort into fighting it off, but the fact that he’d have to put effort into it worries him.

In the background the TV in the corner of the diner blathers on inanely, a low counterpoint to the loud chatter of conversation that swirls around Josh. He’s grateful for the noise; it’s busier than yesterday, doesn’t let him focus on the stress of the unknown. Suddenly, however, a voice cuts through the din, tinny and exhausted and weirdly familiar, and Josh’s gaze snaps to the TV.

There’s a woman talking at a press conference, her grey hair drawn up in a harsh bun much like the one he had drawn on the knife-sharp woman the night before. But this woman is all soft edges where the other had been blades, her figure curvy and feminine. She’s talking about some business deal or stock market event, something involving a lot of digits on checks that make Josh’s lip curl.

He couldn’t care less about this woman’s job, her face doesn’t ring even the quietest bell in his head, but her _voice,_ he’s certain he’s heard it before. Not on a television, either, or through a computer screen. It seems familiar the same way the other woman’s face had been familiar, but he can’t quite grasp it. His eyes flit over the scrolling text at the bottom, taking in her name: Maria Guerra.

As soon as his break begins he’s got his phone out, typing her name into google as fast as he can with his cracked screen. He clicks on her wikipedia article without thinking, then begins scrolling, taking in the information; mid-level Sentinel, born in some backwater town in the south and clawed her way into Wall Street, where she’d clung like a limpet- or, like some tabloids claimed, a leech.

None of it matters, doesn’t register in his head until he reaches the “personal life” section and freezes at the picture he sees there. A sweet smile on her olive skin, premature grey streaking dark hair, resplendent in her wedding dress, feminine in a way few sentinels ever were. And beside her, in a suit complete with tails, like something out of an old-time picture; blond hair, grey eyes like gunmetal, thin lips curling in a smile. A diamond necklace.

Maria Guerra’s partner, Ashton Guerra. An infamous journalist, whose name had first appeared in the public limelight when they’d broken a story about some famous investors who had turned out to be even more corrupt than anyone had expected. The two had met during the investigation, and had married shortly after. The whole affair didn’t further endear Maria to her coworkers, to put it kindly.

Yet when Josh clicks on Ashton’s article, it’s frustratingly sparse. No more clues as to where he would have heard about them. He types their name into google, thumbs harsh against the chipped glass, but they turn out to be an intensely private person. There are plenty of tabloids speculating about them, about the way their gender is clearly something made up so that they could climb through the ranks of journalists faster, the way they’d taken their wife’s last name to claim affirmative action.

To put it politely, it’s a load of bullshit, but none of it is very surprising. It was the same things tabloids say about anyone who was different, and Josh is more than used to it. What pisses him off about it is that it’s all _useless._ None of it gives him anything, not one hint or clue as to who they could be, that their face had somehow found his hands the night before.

Smoke curls up from Josh’s lips, warm where it licks his skin. Clicking on one last article, feeling his free time trickling away quickly and regretting the loss of it, Josh had already dismissed it before his eyes caught on one word.

Guide.

They look nothing like a Guide. They’re masculine despite the small breasts that can be seen through their suits, despite the long hair they keep pinned up. Masculine Guides are even rarer than feminine Sentinels, but the decade-old conspiracy theory Josh finds assures him that they are a Guide. This is why Maria relies on a Guide service instead of bonding, it claims, this is why Ashton is so private, so mysterious.

An unregistered Guide. It’s not impossible, but Josh’s entire mind struggles to wrap around the thought. The woman- no, the enby- he’d drawn was someone who he’d never noticed before, even if he’d seen them in the news in passing. They had never called out to him, never felt connected to him, Guide or no. So why now?

Casting his mind about, he remembers the bruises under Maria’s eyes when he’d seen her in the live news broadcast. Ice water floods his lungs, and he struggles to keep his breathing steady. He checks his shields, and then his thumb taps over the screen one last time.

Only one result, the second down, seems to lead to what he wants. Josh’s thumb hovers over it, hesitating, and then all at once presses down. It leads to an exclusive, a day in the life of Wall Street’s most controversial couple. There’s a picture of them in their living room, casual in a posed sort of way that stank of photographers for whom “natural” wasn’t natural enough. Maria sits on the couch, Ashton leaning over the back of it to hand her a plate full of scrambled eggs, the two of them in casual clothing that costs more than Josh could ever hope to make in a decade, cashmere sweaters and designer jeans.

Their walls are a sunny yellow Josh thinks is seared into his mind. Sunny yellow, a panicked voice cracking high with worry, a zone that isn’t quite a zone. A head shaking that isn’t his own. A deep voice saying, impossibly calmly, “No need.”

\------------

Ethan stands alone in the office, military-perfect stance, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. It’s a familiar room, everything from the mahogany desk to the leather chair comforting in their constancy. They haven’t been replaced in the whole time he’s been there, and it’s been twelve years now. He remembers being eight, looking up at that desk and not being able to see over the top.

Now he towers over it, even taller than most Sentinels could ever hope to get. His face is boyish yet, not fully grown into its square jaw and broad shoulders, but that will come with time, he’s sure. He can’t help but feel a touch of pride at his appearance, the way he’s become the exact sort of man his Commander needs. Strong, dependable, obedient.

Behind him, the door opens with a _bang,_ and if Ethan were a lesser man he would flinch. But he knows better, and so his back remains ramrod-straight and still as his Commander stalks around him, stopping behind the desk. His skin is pale, like Ethan’s, his arms thicker even than Benedict’s. Despite the fury in his green eyes, darkening them, Ethan is struck as always by the man’s beauty.

“What the hell happened out there?” His Commander’s voice is low, even, deadly as hemlock. It makes Ethan want to flinch again, but the solid gaze on him helps, familiar as the room they’re in.

“Sir,” Ethan says dutifully. “While Benedict and I were detaining Mrs. Guerra, the target attacked me with empathy. She induced a zone, which caused my body to release distress pheromones. Due to the strength of my powers, it effected Guides within a large radius before I was drawn out of the zone.”

Ethan pauses, feeling his Commander’s eyes burning his forehead. He doesn’t meet his gaze, instead keeping his head tipped deferentially forward. There’s a beat of silence, and then he says, “I apologize for this lapse, sir. It will not happen again.”

“No, it won’t.” The reply is not an order, but a statement of fact. Ethan nods, content to accept whatever his Commander tells him, but his gut is a knot of tension. He will be punished for this, he knows.

“You will come to my rooms tonight,” his Commander says, and something in Ethan relaxes slightly. Punishments are always better when they’re dealt directly from his Commander, rather than through an underling, some pathetic weakling Ethan could crush without a second thought if it wouldn’t displease his superiors. “And you will dose yourself prior to entering a hostile Guide’s territory again.”

 _That_ gets to him, makes his eyelids twitch with fear. Dosed, he’s at his most vulnerable, even more than in a zone. Even in high stress situations, he’s able to pull himself from all but the worst zones if given enough time, but the drug that acts as a chemical Guide is inexorable. The only way to get it out of his system is to wait, and in the meantime it grates on every inch of his body like sandpaper under his skin, stuffing his nose and ears.

Still, he doesn’t argue, only nods and waits. He’s not dismissed yet, so he can’t leave. The silence draws longer, and slowly Ethan relaxes, realizing that the worst of the punishments are over, as his Commander sinks into the leather chair. “Benedict reports that you suspect you were drawn out of the zone by a Guide.”

Inscrutable green eyes track him coldly, missing nothing as Ethan responds. “Yes sir,” he confesses, and it feels like failure, burns in his gut even worse than the zone had.

“That’s a separate lapse,” his Commander points out, and Ethan fights his instincts to hunch his shoulders in preparation for a blow. His Commander hasn’t hit him like that in years, it’s completely unreasonable; still, he only barely succeeds in stopping himself.

“I apologize, sir,” Ethan says. He doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t even want to defend himself. His Commander has already read the reports, already spoken to Benedict. There are no more explanations for Ethan to give, and certainly none that will make his failure anything close to understandable.

Instead of the reprimand he’d expected, however, what Ethan hears next makes him shocked. “Can you still sense the Guide’s presence?” He asks, as though he doesn’t already know the answer.

Not sure if it’s a trick question or not, Ethan answers slowly. “No, sir,” he responds. “As soon as I was capable of speech again, the Guide retreated from my mind. I attempted to follow them, but they had strong shields and I was still recovering.” His commander already _knew_ all this, didn’t he? Why was he asking, then?

His Commander is shaking his head, though, disappointment curling around Ethan like a vice, punching the air from his lungs. “Not that,” he says impatiently, “What did the Guide feel like, when their awareness was attached to yours?”

Frowning, Ethan considered the question. Like all Sentinels, he couldn’t truly visualize his mindscape without the aid of a Guide, but his senses being what they were, he could do things that other Sentinels couldn’t. “High altitude wind,” he said, remembering the coldness, the remoteness. “And wet air, like fog.”

Even that was difficult to recall, the memory fading like a dream the more time that passed from it, but Ethan still felt guilty. His sight may have been zoned, but he should have been able to smell it, to taste it, to hear it. The fact that he hadn’t put disappointment clear on his Commander’s face, and it was just one more failure for the day, one more way Ethan wasn’t good enough.

Instead of reprimanding him, however, his Commander simply sighs. “Can you still feel it?” Ethan startles at that, minute shifts of his body as if he want’s to jump not missed by his Commander.

He doesn’t want to. He wants it to be _gone_ , but he’s already made too many blunders over the past few days, so he focuses. Calls on that feeling, the vague tugging of wind blowing through his bound hair as though it’s loose, pushing it in his face no matter how impossible it is. “Yes sir,” he says, and in this at least, he doesn’t hesitate.

Curtly nodding, his Commander says, “Good.” It’s a weight off of Ethan’s shoulders, heady relief that nearly sends him to his knees. “Tomorrow you will search for that Guide.” Ethan nods without thinking, accepting his orders. “You are dismissed for now.”

“Thank you sir,” Ethan says, giving a small bow just the way his Commander had taught him. He walks out of the room, closing the heavy door behind him carefully, and turns around only to pause in surprise.

Benedict leans casually against the wall a little ways down the hallway, his hair and beard trimmed and neat as ever, not a hair out of place. He’s eyeing Ethan with something inscrutable in his eyes, but Ethan shakes off the feeling of being a specimen and instead inclines his head. “Were you waiting long?” He asks, stepping away from the doors.

“No,” Benedict’s voice isn’t naturally as deep as Ethan’s, but years of shouting at upstart recruits had roughened it, lent it a growl that Ethan’s didn’t have. “I was wondering if we could talk for a second, boy.”

Nodding, Ethan follows Benedict down the hallway. It’s mostly deserted, nearly everyone eating lunch in the mess hall or their offices. “Did Jacob tell you what we’re doing?” He asks, voice pitched low despite their relative aloneness.

“Yes,” Ethan replies. “Tomorrow, we’re to track and, if possible, capture the Guide who pulled me from my zone.” He looks sideways at Benedict, the frown etched into the lines of his face. “I assumed that we’re to leave at 6:00, as usual. I’ve also been ordered to dose myself prior to engaging with the Guide.”

Benedict grimaces at that, but he still nods an affirmative. “You think you can do it?” he asks, and there’s something soft in the way he says it, despite his gruff manner. It’s things like this that had led Ethan astray all those years ago, when he was young and stupid, before he’d learned to control his desires more efficiently.

“Of course,” he replies anyway, despite the uncomfortable warmth in his throat. Benedict smiles a bit at that, not with his mouth but with his eyes, leaving a slight twinkle in their dark depths.

“Good man,” he says, clapping a hand on Ethan’s shoulder for a too-brief moment before pulling away. “Now go get yourself some food; we don’t need overzealous whelps like you collapsing from enthusiasm ‘cause you think you can do without.” He pulls away, quickening his pace, before he turns down a side corridor without a backwards glance. Ethan stares at the corridor for a long time before he continues forward.

\------------

That night, Josh dreams of a desert. There are no plants here, and the air smells of salt and rotten fish, but he can’t see any corpses either. Only fossils litter the ground, frail bones and shells turned to stone long ago. Red sand extends in all directions, furrows dug by what must have been rivers long ago reaching into the ground like wounds.

When he looks up, he sees only a single cloud, so high up as to appear almost small. But even so he recognizes his castle, and reaches for it, tries to fly up to it or pull it down to him. It doesn’t respond, however, and so he starts walking, searching for his cloud’s shadow.

It doesn’t take him too long to spot it in the distance, a dark stain on the ground. Despite the way that the miles between them make his heart ache he can’t force himself to move faster than his slow walk, steady, carefully keeping his eyes on the ground more often than not to help him pick his way around the fossils.

Still, he makes progress, the dream stretching time into something intangible so the journey feels impossibly brief. And then he’s there, staring up at the cloud, _his_ cloud, so far out of reach but it feels. So. Close.

Once more he reaches up, palms splayed against the grey underside of his _home._ “Come on,” he mutters, and his voice rings out like a bell over the endlessness of the desert, so he says it again, louder. “Come on!”

Fisting his hands, he can feel it, feel his cloud yearning for him. The parched earth yearns for it too, each square mile of softness promising moisture, _life._ They beg together, Josh and the earth, and his cloud listens.

A drop falls on the ground three feet to Josh’s left and he cheers, jumps into the air exuberantly. More drops come down, beginning to hit his hair, his shoulders, and he closes his eyes and lifts his face to the cloud and feels a smile break over his lips. It feels right, clean.

On impulse he opens his mouth, like a child, like someone who’s been in the desert far longer than he has. When no drop falls in immediately he starts running, his tongue hanging out trying to catch one. He nearly cheers again when he succeeds, but then he closes his mouth, tastes it.

Copper?

Josh opens his eyes once more, for the first time since the rain had started falling, and stares at the bottom of his cloud in confusion. Had it always been so dark, so smooth? The bottom is flat as if the cloud has flipped over on itself, his greenhouse upended and his plants fallen all over its ceiling. Is he tasting sap?

Confusion wraps dizzying arms around him, forcing him to drop his head down. And then he stares, and stares, and stares because the sand was red but it wasn’t _crimson._

Awakening with a start, Josh scrubs at his curls with both hands, half expecting red, crusted-on grains to fall from them. But they don’t, and he’s left staring at his rumpled sheets, head pounding. _What the fuck had that been?_

Eventually he drags himself up, certain that he won’t be getting any more sleep tonight. His feet knock over empty beer bottles when he swings them over the edge of the bed and he winces at the clatter of glass against glass. Nothing broke, but that was a near thing.

Stumbling to his bathroom, Josh splashes water over his face sloppily, not bothering with the lights. Not for the first time, he regrets his decision to stay at home and research Ashton and Maria Guerra. Try as he did, he’d found nothing else of use. _Nothing._ Frustration had turned to anger had turned to beer bottles lining up on his bedside.

Some part of him aches to go to a bar, catch the last few patrons before it closed and see if any of them are his type. But he can’t, at least responsibly. He still needs to find a way to contact the Guerras, find out what he can about yesterday. He’s not sure why the urge is so strong, but something about the way the moon had felt was like a lodestone, drawing him in with a slow pressure he couldn’t fight.

Fighting every instinct that tells him to give up already and move on, put this incident behind him like he’d put behind all the others, Josh pulls out his laptop and stares at it as it boots up. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ He wonders, but he doesn’t stop (can’t, not without remembering rusty red in his hair). His internet history takes him to his last search in seconds, and he continues brainstorming.

Talking his way into the Guerras’ fancy apartment would be easy, but he couldn’t use empathy on cameras. If any suspicion arose, they would know who he was. _They would find him._ He has to find another way to her, some possibility to contact her. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, pain building in his skull. _I need another drink._


	4. Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So because my enthusiasm for this story is overwhelming and I desperately want to share it with you all, you’re getting two updates next week! Chapter 5 will be up on Wednesday, 6 on Friday. I hope you enjoy!!

Saturday mornings always seem to exist in some kind of weird stasis, like the whole world is holding its breath. The feeling is only compounded by the slight hangover blurring Josh’s vision, despite the hours and hours that have gone by since his drinking spree the night before. Still, his head’s clear enough, and he walks with short, sure steps towards his destination.

Under his arm, he clutches his most official-looking sketchbook, recently filled with pictures of Mx. Ashton. They stare harshly out of page after page, charcoal and watercolor. The waste of his supplies makes him grit his teeth, but if it helps him solve his mystery then it would turn out to be worth it. He only has to fake it well enough.

A familiar apartment building looms over him, the sort of place that he usually goes out of his way to avoid. Every inch of it stinks of money, brand new and shiny. He’d bet that a single room in that place cost more for a week than his apartment cost for a year; he hates it as much as he had the first time he’d seen it, from high above, but now like then he can’t bask in the feeling.

He marches to the front desk with an authority he doesn’t feel but is radiating anyways. The lady manning it looks up, her eyes slightly hazy. She’s weak to empathy, which makes him snort, but it’s lucky; he’s more likely to have the plan succeed without arousing suspicion. “I have an appointment with Mx. Ashton Guerra,” he says, meeting the blank blue gaze the woman across the desk is leveling at him.

The woman nods, waves her immaculately manicured hand in a vague gesture. “Please wait while I call ahead to confirm,” she says, perfect hand pushing down a button on her wide counter... desk... thing. Josh retreats a few steps, keeping his gaze perfectly bored as he takes in the water feature cascading down from the middle of the room. What a compleyely useless thing.

“Sir?” The woman says, sounding hesitant. “Mrs. Guerra says that she was not aware of any appointment, and Mx. Guerra is not in at the moment.”

Gritting his teeth, Josh forces a smile and sends gentle waves of reassurance and surety over the secretary. “I must have gotten the time wrong,” he looks down, appropriately chastised, for only a moment before he locks their gazes together again. “All I need to do is drop off these, though, so if it’s no trouble you could buzz me up, couldn’t you?” He holds out his sketchbook, spreading the pages to one of the watercolor paintings, delicate and new.

She hesitates, but her eyes lock on the painting, something hungry in her gaze. “I could hold onto that for you sir,” she says, and Josh wants to bark a laugh at the irony of her calling him that.

“I wish you could,” he says, mournful sincerity dripping from his words. He’s practically saturated in the stuff, it’s sickening, and if he’s laying it on a little thick because he’s nervous, well, no one will notice. “But Mx. Guerra was very clear that they’re the only person who’s allowed to see the art before it’s finished. I already gave you a sneak peek, I can’t give you more or that would be cheating.”

Winking, he puts the finishing touches on his trap. He divides his focus between his empathy and his tongue as he speaks, careful to prevent any slip ups that will make him look dubious to people watching the security footage at the end of the day. And it works. It’s been years since he’s exercised his empathy this way, and though he hadn’t realized it, he’d been slightly nervous. When the secretary waves him through, the last bit of doubt melts away. He can do this.

The elevator is surprisingly pleasant, if as ridiculous as everything else these people chose to spend money on. The three glass walls and seemingly endless ride remind him a bit of his castle, and while that’s not a strictly pleasant thought it’s enough to relax him further, keep him calm until he reaches the twentieth floor.

Doors slide open with a chime, tasteful and soft for the Sentinels who live here, revealing a room with a door on either side. It resembles nothing so much as a hallway, but it’s too short for that. It occurs to Josh that the people who live here actually have an entire half a floor each, and a bit of tension rolls back in. _I’m out of my fucking depth._

He’s come too far to back out now, though, so he charges forward, knocks on the door he knows leads to the living room with the open window that he had slipped through before. His knuckles are loud on the wood, but no one immediately answers. Maria Guerra is home, he knows she is, so he shifts from foot to foot and waits. And knocks again. And waits.

It’s after the third series of thumps of his knuckles that the door at last opens, a woman staring at him in exasperation. “Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying,” she says, and her voice is surprisingly deep for such a sweet looking woman. It feels like melted chocolate on his tongue.

“Mrs. Guerra,” he begins, then hesitates. He doesn’t want to lie to her outright, not if he’s going to get her and her spouse to trust him enough to tell him what he wants to know, but he barely knows what he wants to know himself. In the end, he opens the sketchbook again. “Your partner hired me to draw several renditions of their likeness. I came to drop them off, and also to discuss portfolio use?”

Allowing his voice to lilt up at the end makes him sound unsure, vulnerable, and sure enough her Sentinel protectiveness kicks in. She sees him and notices only that he’s shorter than her, a rarity, and that for all that he has a thin layer of fat on his hips it’s still not enough padding without muscle underneath, and his shirt drapes like his ribs would likely be visible through his skin. All these facts he hates, all working in his favor now. He plays the starving art student well.

“Alright,” she says, after a long pause. But it’s not him she’s looking at; it’s the painting, and he snaps the sketchbook shut, smiling at her. Something pained flits across her face, and then she’s stepping to the side, allowing him into her home.

 _Wonderful,_ he thinks, _now what._ He hadn’t actually thought he’d get this far. Now that he’s standing in her home, surrounded by that sunny yellow color he’s somehow certain Maria was the one to pick out, he isn’t sure how to proceed.

“Would you like a drink?” Maria says, leading him to the white leather couch he’d seen in the photographs of their home. “I have coffee and tea.” Josh stares down at the armrest, trying not to gawk. Does this thing _vibrate?_

“Uh, coffee,” he says, blinking back up at her and placing his sketchbook on the tasteful (read: plain) and probably insanely expensive coffee table. “Cream and sugar too, please,” he remembers to add the polite amendment at the end, though it’s awkward. He’s used to living downtown, where even his boss cusses on a regular basis.

Smiling politely, Maria says “Just one moment” and hustles out, her pink dress looking out of place given the weather outside. Josh eyes the low-hanging clouds, still lingering, and half expects it to start sleeting.

“You know,” comes a voice from the open doorway to the kitchen, forced-casual in a transparent way that makes Josh roll his eyes while Maria can’t see him. “I don’t remember Ashton posing for those pictures. When did you meet with them?”

On a hunch, Josh replies, “Yesterday.”

Instantly he finds himself on the floor, coffee beans scattered on the carpet around him. Maria’s soft, chubby arm feels suddenly like steel against his throat, making him choke. A low, Sentinel-deep snarl rises around them, rattling in Josh’s bones. He needs to get _out,_ needs to escape, needs to find a Sentinel to defend him-

Clamping down on his instincts harshly, Josh simply stares up at her with wide eyes, trying to send gentle suggestions of calm through the point where their skin touches. He’s shocked to find that he _can’t,_ or at least not easily, which means that she’s bonded, which means the tabloid was _right_.

“You think you can come in here and threaten me?” She snarls in his face, knocking away his train of thought. Gone is the pleasant, sweet woman of before; she is fire now, lava bubbling just under her skin, threatening to sear Josh away. “After that _incident_ , you people think I’m some kind of _fucking pushover?_ ”

She spits the last word, spittle flying in Josh’s face, and when he pushes it’s a bit harder than he’d meant to. Suddenly she’s slumping on his chest, her frame larger and heavier than his, driving what little he’d been able to breathe in around her arm from his body. Still, he’s able to squirm his way out from under her, and then he’s left staring at the disheveled woman lying on her stomach on the ground, surrounded by a failed attempt at coffee.

Despite everything, he’s not frightened of her. He’s been attacked by people who are larger, more desperate, or both. Lying on the ground like this, she looks defeated already; it does nothing so much as make his heart harden against the pity trying to take root there.

“Pushover?” He asks eventually, combing through what she’d said slowly. The answers are so close he can taste it, but every chance he has of getting them is lying on the floor right now. A piece of him is screaming to run before she recovers, but it’s too late; whatever compelled him to come this far has gotten him in so deep, he couldn’t get out now if he tried. “No, I don’t think you’re a pushover.”

Maria turns her head languidly until one of her brown eyes can lock onto him. Her muscles are still relaxed and unwieldy, but she’s recovering remarkably quickly. “Listen,” he says, talking faster now, “Two days ago, when every Guide in the city had swooning fits, I drew Ashton on a whim. _Without knowing who they are._ If you can tell me what the fuck is going on, and not fucking attack me again, I’ll let you get up”

Slowly, as if it takes a lot of effort, Maria nods. Josh allows the calm permeating the air to die back down, though he adds a few more layers to his shields, just in case. Maria works her mouth for a moment, as if mouthing words and stretching her tongue to be sure that it works properly before speaking. “Jesus,” she mutters, “you’re really not with them, you poor boy.”

Bristling, Josh pulls further away from her, sitting back on the couch so he’s above her even when she sits back up and stares at him with something between distrust and... pity? “Nothing happened, really,” she says, “the tower just sent some enforcers to take in an unregistered Guide. Nothing newsworthy.” Josh nods, but there’s guilt pouring off of her like stink from a sewer.

“You can’t lie to a guide, you know,” he points out, and she nods as if that was obvious. While he processes this, she stands and goes to the coffee table, snatching up his sketchbook. She flips through the pages, gazing at each depiction with such a longing expression that Josh feels mildly disgusted.

Fingers hovering over a charcoal sketch, as though she wants to stroke it but can’t risk smudging it, Maria whispers, “You must be a powerful one, if you picked up so much.” Then she looks up at him, fingers tightening on the sketchbook he’s suddenly certain he won’t get back, despite its dozens of blank pages. Frustration sparks in him; it had been expensive, damnit. “You have to go,” she doesn’t sound like she’s kicking him out, her voice is too soft for that, but it’s not negotiable either. “They have surveillance on my home, and my guess is you don’t want the enforcers showing up any more than I do.”

Reluctant as he is to agree, considering how little information he’d actually gotten, Josh can’t find a way to refuse without risking a repeat of Maria’s sudden rage from earlier. “When can I meet you next?” He says, determined to at least get this commitment from her, if she doesn’t feel safe to tell him what the hell is up here.

Maria looks contemplatively to the paper in her hands, as if the thin lips will move on the page and tell her what the right answer is. “There’s an ice cream shop two blocks away,” she says eventually, “Dreamer’s Creamery. I go there around nine every weekend night.” Looking up at Josh, she smiles wryly. “I don’t think I’ll be there tonight, though.”

Josh nods once, and then he’s walking from the room. His back feels itchy facing Maria, like he wants to turn back around and make sure she’s not going to pounce again, but that would be superfluous. He can feel the emotions dripping from her skin, sadness and loss and love. They whirl into a muddy puddle at her feet before permeating the room, and he’s certain that she’s no threat to anyone right now. Still, his instincts are hard to fight.

Tension pulls under his skin, drawing out even the slight pleasure of riding in that elevator again. To distract from the frustration gnawing at him he focuses on other things; how he has to get to an art supply store today, how his stomach is growling because he hasn’t eaten breakfast or lunch and it’s nearly one already, how the sun has reappeared in his sky.

 _The sun._ The thought makes him jerk while he walks down the street, his body twisting to stare at the dull grey of clouds. Then he turns his sight inwards and there it is, far off on the edge of the city, but _there_ and despite the dimness he knows how bright it can be, and he _hates it._

If it had been a straightforward arrest of an unregistered Guide, then why was the Sentinel returning? Josh has a moment to feel horrified at the thought that they were coming for _him,_ but that was irrational. Even if they had come to track down whatever mysterious Guide had pulled the Sentinel from his zone, there was nothing to connect Josh to the incident, and no lingering link for the Sentinel to track him through.

Of course, that’s the moment he feels it. Gentle tugging, warmth like a magnet in the direction of the sun. Panic wells up in him, sour like vinegar in his nose, but it simmers just under the surface, not erupting yet. Without missing a step he continues down the sidewalk, the picture of casual Saturday leisure, but his mind is a wreck, turning over every item in his castle to find the place where the link is anchored and rip it _out._

For all of his power, though, he’s never had to do this before, and he’s not sure how now. Is there even a specific place in his castle where it’s anchored? Or would he be better served leaving it to find the scrap of fog in the sun’s soul and ripping that apart instead? As it is now, all he can do is stroll in the opposite direction the sun is coming from, and hope that the tugging is unintentional, that the sun returned for Maria and not for him.

 _If they were going to take her,_ a traitorous voice in his head whispers, feather-light through the leaves of his greenhouse, _they would have already._ Focusing on that will do nothing but freeze him up, though, so he just keeps walking. Worst case scenario, they find him, and he slams them with the notion that he’s simply not there until they give up and walk away. If that happens, he needs to leave no suspicion behind anywhere a camera can see.

Turning into an alleyway, Josh begins to take a more circuitous route. Though it gives the sun (complete with two pale companions, the same ones from before, he’s sure) time to catch up to him, it also means that there are no traffic cameras to catch glimpses of him, no security or ATM cameras with their glass eyes. This is his home turf, he reminds himself, and if they want a fight then he’s able to give as good as he gets.

Time moves oddly, Josh’s feet and knees aching long before they should, the sun drawing near impossibly slowly given that Josh has already determined that he’s in a car. By the time it’s close enough for him to feel the emotions rising and falling within the man it belongs to, boredom and concentration and annoyance in a strange concoction, he’s almost eager for it to arrive at last. And then it goes out.

It doesn’t disappear entirely, but it’s like a new moon; aside from it’s vague edges, it’s mostly defined by the absence of anything within it, a silhouette cutout against the exact same color sky. Josh feels as though ice is in his veins, piercing them until bruises bloom. Guideine? The sentinel had dosed himself- or been dosed? There had been no apprehension in his mind, no fear or worry, so he couldn’t have known it would happen, could he?

Shivering, Josh reminds himself that he could have. Tower enforcers were fanatics as often as they were “devoted to the cause,” and Josh knew as well as anyone the damage fanatics could do. Abruptly, he’s thankful for the empathy that usually causes him nothing but worry. At least this time, it can save him from the trouble it’s gotten him into.

They catch up to him faster than he’d thought they would, two running ahead of the third, who leans over and pants when they have Josh cornered. The alleyway is dark, buildings leaning in on either side with age and obscuring their faces, but Josh finds his eyes drawn to the youngest of the three anyway, hungrily drinking in details without his consent.

Hair that would likely brush his shoulders if it was down, pulled back away from his face in a way that looks almost angry, invites fingers running through it, loosening it. Skin so pale it almost glows in the darkness, like he’s somehow brought the light of his sun into the physical world. Josh aches to know what his face looks like for a moment before he cracks back down on his shields.

Though it’s only a momentary lapse, it’s enough that Josh can’t simply slip around them and impress upon them that the alleyway had been empty all along. They see his shape at the same time as he sees theirs, and suddenly it’s a lot more complex than it was. Still, Josh can work with this; though it’s never been this bad, he’s dealt with situations before.

 _You took a wrong turn,_ he pushes, so hard that the oldest man stands up straighter immediately, inhaling deeply as if he has a Sentinel’s sense of smell and can track Josh, though Josh knows he doesn’t. _You’ve scared some kid now, that’s all._ A look of guilt flits across the out-of-shape one’s face.

Dosed as he is, the Sentinel who draws Josh’s attention like a magnet only blinks, slowly. Any normal Sentinel should be reacting though, even dosed, so Josh’s focus narrows, like a beam under a magnifying glass. It feels like the Sentinel should be on fire, but nothing happens. The sun doesn’t even brighten, not one bit, and something in that is so wrong that Josh, already on edge and riding the wave of adrenaline that had set all of his instincts on edge, cracks.

Shields are as easy for Josh to build as a thought, and he could have as many as two hundred at a time on a normal day. Today being what it was, they number in the three hundreds, layer upon layer of wind and fog and floating stone, branching out from his cloud in great spheres. There are five that he’s had since he learned to make them, thick and strong and flawless, as much a part of his cloud as the castle. But the others come and go, interchangeable, following his every command like a muscle flexing.

Yet it’s not at his command that they dissipate now, dozens at once, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. They’ve never done that before, and Josh can feel his stress pouring off of him, the barely held back instincts rocking through him full-force. The two other men cry out, empathy striking them like a blow, making their muscles lock in fight or flight, and this time even the Sentinel seems to freeze.

Stillness makes minute shifts obvious to Josh, as if he’s the one with super sight now. He sees pupils dilate even further in the darkness, turning irises into a terrifying black. He sees leg muscles twitch as if to start moving, start running towards him. He sees an Adam’s apple bob in a hard swallow. He sees the sun blaze bright again.

But just like before the lapse lasts only a moment, and then he’s shrieking in his head, his jaw locked to keep him from echoing the noise aloud, _I’m not here!_ His shields slam back up and he’s racing away, straight past the still frozen Sentinel, towards the light of the street where he can disappear into a crowd.

Feet barely hitting the ground between strides, Josh runs, paying no attention to where he’s going other than to get _away._ He can’t go home, can’t risk leaving a scent trail back; taking his route past a deli, he pauses to grip handfuls of sickly-sweet rotten meat, rubbing it against his shirt and neck. He races between restaurants, hiding in the scent-shadows he knows they cast, with their refuse and rot that sanitation workers never seem to manage to scrub away entirely.

Eventually he ends up near his apartment, the Sentinel who shines like a sun far behind him. He tracks the man warily in his mind, but he doesn’t seem to be drawing any closer, and when Josh searches himself for the tugging feeling of cloud missing from him he doesn’t find it. Perhaps when he’d dropped his shields it had come back to him, or it had been shocked out of the Sentinel. Either way, it was gone, which was all Josh cared about.

Climbing the stairs to a place that feels more like prison than home, Josh feels his body slowly going numb. He’d been a live wire for hours, even before going to Maria’s apartment, and now he feels rung out, empty. It’s better than the alternative, though, the instincts still lurking under the surface of his skin. The way he’d wanted a Sentinel to save him when Maria had pinned him, the way his shields had dropped to _help_ the Sentinel who was fucking hunting him, for christ’s sake.

Bile rises in his throat, and Josh has to take the last few steps two at a time in order to make it to his bathroom before it spills over. There’s barely anything there, his stomach empty of both food and water all day, but the mouthful of acid still burns coming up. He rinses his mouth in the sink, then considers.

Brushing his teeth quickly, he strips and allows his filthy clothing to fall to the floor. He doesn’t want to think tonight. He wants heat, and a different kind of filth from what he’d been swimming in all day, the kind that leaves him satisfied and comfortable and everything he hasn’t been. He wants his mind to be _quiet_ long enough for him to process everything.

Showering as fast as he can and still be sure to get the stink off completely, Josh smiles to himself. He’s going to get his brains fucked out of him tonight, come hell or high water, and no Sentinel lingering on the edge of his city is going to stop him.

\------------

Sitting in the plain hotel room, bland scents of off brand detergent and soap swirling around him, Ethan reflects on the disaster that the day had been. The plan had been simple, the exact kind of thing he’d pulled off dozens of times, nearly the same as what he’d done only two days ago. And yet he’d ruined it, thoroughly failed to account for the variables, not even considered the possibility of such a powerful Guide.

Ethan remembers this morning, getting dressed briskly at 5:30, ignoring the stinging stiffness in his back, the soreness in his throat. His punishment had been lenient, all things considered, and he even had a tube of antiseptic cream, given to him directly by his Commander, to prove it. He’d been so sure of himself, no room for doubt in his mind that the issue would be wrapped up quickly and he would be presenting his Commander with a success before night could fall.

He’d wasted no time, he reassures himself. Benedict had gone over the plan with him in the car, okayed it to the tune of Brian’s nervous chatter from the backseat. The entire time he’d been tracking the Guide Brian had been cross-referencing the directions on his laptop, finding the quickest routes, the likely candidates that security cameras picked up. At least in that, the day hadn’t been a complete waste, since they now had clues to the Guide’s identity.

But that they were only clues was a brand on Ethan’s chest. They didn’t have a name, a voice, not even a face. He could only remember odd details; the curl of his hair, the peppery-hot scent he hadn’t been able to place, hazel eyes bright with fear. His gender, Ethan did remember that, though the reason made him sicker than the lack of knowledge would have.

When the empathy attack hadn’t worked on Ethan (and he was so grateful to his Commander, now that he understood the doses weren’t a punishment; without him, today would have been a complete failure) the Guide had changed tactics, and it had been... Ethan had never felt anything like it before. Liquid heat searing through him, pure and white, not so bright as to feel out of control, but dangerously close to that. All at once he’d seen an image of himself under the Guide, a hardness grinding against his pelvis that was smaller than any he’d felt before but was so much more present, it ached.

Whoever the Guide was, he was compatible with Ethan. That didn’t matter, of course, but it was interesting to him, held an allure like anything forbidden did. He wouldn’t act on it, of course he wouldn’t, but there had never been a Guide he’d had an affinity for before, and he hadn’t needed a Guide, not like other Sentinels did, so the tower had allowed him to go unbonded. It was the wisest choice, even if it made this mission more difficult.

The white noise of the shower in the adjoining bathroom shuts off, barely thirty seconds passing before Benedict is opening the door, clad only in a towel around his hips. Ethan averts his eyes, trying to ignore the water dripping down the planes of his body. For all that the man is fastidious about his appearance, he’s always been a bit odd, but Ethan doesn’t need the sight right now. Silently, he stands and makes his way to the bathroom, sidestepping Benedict neatly.

Swiftly turning the shower back on and stripping, Ethan eyes his back critically in the partially fogged mirror. The stripes are healing well, red scabs already forming over the marks his Commander had left on him. Though they overlapped thickly, he knew exactly how many there were. Twenty. Twenty for the failures he’d had to come to his Commander with last time. It hardly felt like anything, given that he’d once had fifty, but the thought that more could be coming soon makes his eyes sting.

Hot water pounds on him when he steps through the glass door, soothing the aches in his muscles even as it aggravates his cuts. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking out the pale gold until a curtain has fallen over his eyes, shielding them from the water. The motion reminds him of the single flash his instincts had given him of the Guide, those full lips parted in a predatory grin instead of a fearful gasp, hands small as a doll’s against his skull gripping his long locks and tugging.

His body reacts before he can stop it, and he glares sullenly down at it. Sentinels presented with a compatible Guide would react physically, yes, that was normal, but he’s nowhere near that Guide now. The memory should repulse him, but when he swallows and feels that soreness all he can think of is a different cock in his mouth, a smaller one, one he’s not familiar with but desperately wants to be.

It feels like treason, betrayal, disloyalty, everything Ethan never wanted to be.

\------------

Josh wades through the throng, pangs of hunger in his gut urging him on. If he’s to be ruled by his instincts tonight, he wants it to be the instinct he’s most familiar with. So many men try to catch his eye as he walks by, clad in barely enough leather to be considered innocent.

It’s an outfit he reserves for truly desperate times, and now seems the perfect time to use it, but he hasn’t found anyone yet who fits what he wants. No chiseled jaws, muscles thick with use rather than workouts. No hair like sunbeams, straight and bright- but no, he doesn’t need to think of that.

A hand comes down behind him, and though he feels the spark of _intent_ before it lands on his ass he still jumps a bit, alcohol making his head fuzzy. He turns with a biting remark on his tongue, but it dies when he sees the man’s face. Playful grin, just the shadow of a beard gracing his jaw, dark hair falling in his eyes. At least a foot of height on Josh. He’s gorgeous, and Josh grins back slowly, allows his eyelids to go hooded.

“You alone tonight?” He asks, feminine voice in a low purr that had been known to send men to their knees.

\------------

Hand curling around his own hip, Ethan considers. He’s already spectacularly wrecked everything today, so one more thing can’t hurt. He won’t even imagine the Guide, won’t picture the slim body holding his down. Now that he’s considering it he’s not even sure he _could,_ he’s never felt anything like that before.

For all that his mind bends towards the hypothetical, though, the softness like a kiss against his whole body and the steel in a gaze as it pins him more surely than any weight could, Ethan pulls back. He casts his mind to familiar waters, and it’s not difficult; his Commander gave him permission to do this, after all, so long as he includes it in his private reports.

Before he even touches it, his cock twitches again, makes his face flush dark. Sentinel hormones might be embarrassing, but at least he has the comfort of knowing that he’s not going to last, not going to have to suffer through the guilt of this pleasure much longer.

\------------

They barely make it to the bathroom, truth be told. Only the packet of lubricant that Josh presses into the stranger’s- Ian, he reminds himself- hand makes them pause, one of Ian’s eyebrows going up at the sight. But Josh doesn’t want that look, doesn’t want a mouth anywhere but on his skin, where it can’t talk and make him _think._

Harshly pulling Ian’s head back to his with one hand knotted in his wavy hair, Josh gasps, “Fuck me.” It’s close enough to begging to make the larger man shiver, close enough to an order to make Josh’s lungs sing with triumph when Ian bends him over and makes him brace his hands on the wall. They’re in a stall, but they didn’t even lock the door, and the sounds will be very distinctive. Josh wants to crow with the threat of someone walking in on them rushing through his veins.

\------------

As always Ethan tries to draw it out, and as always he can’t; his hand wraps around himself and it’s like he loses control, can’t stop himself from gripping tighter and rocking his hips. It’s all he can do to keep his mind present, to bring his free hand to his throat and press down where hands even larger than his had been the night before.

Rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock, Ethan gasps. He remembers his Commander’s face above him, cropped hair just a bit more pale than his. And since fantasies are free he imagines touching it, imagines the bristly feeling under his calloused fingers, but instead his mind goes to softness and ringlets and he grows impossibly harder.

\------------

Setting a brutal pace, Ian begins pounding into Josh with barely any preparation, and Josh thanks every deity he can think of that he’s used to this, used to the burn of it, because it means that while he’s not a masochist he can swallow the pain as long as he gets the pleasure too. And he’s getting the pleasure, a dull throb of it every time Ian’s cock pulls out, sharp fireworks when he pushes back in and brushes Josh’s prostate. He’s not going to last.

\------------

The moment before Ethan comes he slips his hand from around his neck and presses it to his back instead, palm covering a thick patch of cuts. He lets loose a low whine when he presses down, squeezing his hand around himself and pressing the other down firmly. The angle is awkward but it’s what he needs, stinging pain grounding him and pushing him over the edge.

\------------

Josh spills into the toilet, his mouth gaping open around nothing at all. He doesn’t know Ian, doesn’t care about him enough to call his name, and he doesn’t know the name that belongs to the man who had flashed into his mind at the last second.

Before Ian can even pull out Josh is pushing back against him demandingly. Clearly, he hasn’t had his brains fucked out yet.

\------------

Ethan stares down at his hand while the spray washes it clean slowly, dragging white streaks down the drain. His mind feels muffled, soft as it always does after he comes, and he wants nothing more than to curl up under the water and wait for it to run cold.

But there’s work to be done, and so he turns the water off and shakes his head as if it will make the ache of dragging himself from the gentle muffling hurt less.


	5. Terrorist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ay so maybe you didn’t wanna send headcanons, I get that, but how about? Sending in some music that this story reminds you of? :3c I have no writing playlist for this tbh and would love to construct one with your suggestions!

Waking up in another unfamiliar room, Josh catalogued all of his various aches and pains. His lower back and thighs hurt when he stood up, worse than they had in a long time, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. His head didn’t feel stuffed full of angry bees, which was a small miracle, but he really hadn’t had much to drink the night before. Just enough that he could relax.

In the light of day, basking in the aftermath of a truly interesting night (Ian had turned out to have a penchant for cock rings and orgasm denial, to Josh’s delight), Josh finds his mind blissfully free of the nausea that had plagued him. Which leaves him free to think without fear of his reactions.

Sadly, for all that he’s relatively comfortable in Ian’s nicer apartment, he can’t simply linger and think here. Pulling a cigarette from his discarded coat, Josh leans his head out a window, enacting a years-old ritual good bye to his fuck of the night. Ian had been good, though, _really_ good, so Josh adjusts the routine slightly, scrawling his number beside the note he leaves. He can count on his hands the number of times he’s done this before, but he’d needed something badly the night before, and damn if Ian didn’t deliver.

Still, Josh doesn’t linger and wait for Ian to wake up. He simply walks out, his bag slung over one shoulder jauntily. There’s a ridiculous spring in his step while he walks home, but at least he doesn’t whistle. At some point in the haze of his dreams it had occurred to him why his powers had gone so out of control yesterday, and he finds himself relaxing into his new plan of action with more than a little relief.

Hubris had led to him practicing the Guide techniques he knew less often than he should have been. Well, more like never; he’d just never felt like he needed to. Raw power had always accommodated for whatever he lacked in finesse, but that clearly wasn’t going to work with the Sentinel who had tracked him down. He seemed to break every rule, already, so Josh might as well break a few too.

He gets back to his apartment in the blink of an eye, digs up an old Rubik’s cube, then sits crosslegged on his floor, not even bothering to get to the couch or his bed. The carpet is soft enough under his sore ass anyway, so he turns his focus to the cube and, simultaneously, to his castle. He’d recreated all of his cracked shields the night before, but it’s been a long time since he’s bothered with this more strenuous exercise.

Fingers flickering over the cube and eyes focused on it, not inward, _never inward,_ Josh surveys his innermost shield. Wind howling around his cloud, never ending, a tornado that can’t touch the ground. When he reaches out to it it carries him off his feet, and then he’s tumbling through the chaos of it, the strange warmth that defies their height and the snow that has begun falling outside his window.

One side solved, nine white squares with their stickers peeling at the corners. He moves on to the second layer of his shields after surveying every corner of the wind, touching each stream and reassuring it with his presence. Now he finds himself in a place as calm as the wind had been chaotic, as cold as the wind had been warm. Water droplets hang in the air, so small that even as cold as they are they remain liquid.

Basking in the feeling of water soaking into his clothing, his hair, and crystalizing there, Josh looks around. He keeps his eyes wide against the haze that the cirrus clouds cause, doesn’t let his concentration drop even when colors seem to distort, darken and turn redder. For anyone else, the cirrus clouds would be staining the sky sanguine, as if they were made of blood instead of water, but since they’re his they part before his fingertips.

Dark red sits adjacent to the white side now, matching the inside of his head. Josh smiles wryly and steps forward, into his third shield. It’s quiet, seemingly empty, and it’s here that Josh pauses to look back at his castle. Saint Elmo’s fire burns from the highest spire, poking up above the flat top of his cloud, bright blue and buzzing faintly. He’s far enough that he sees it as a sort of halo, and he smiles affectionately as the taste of beer washes over his tastebuds from the bottle he’d just retrieved in real life and brought to his lips.

Josh sets his bottle down and sets his eyes forward, taking up his Rubik’s cube and lifting his palms until they’re braced in front of him, as if pushing. This has always been his least favorite layer, and it shows; neglect had allowed it to fall dormant, and though the smell of ozone is strong in the air and his hair is standing on end, he can’t see what he should be seeing. So he braces his hands, exerts pressure with something that feels like his cloud but looks like yellow sparks, and then the air lights up.

All around him float shapes, shades of orange coloring the glowing blobs that drift around and through him. Their edges are fuzzy, and though they’re silent they make the air crackle with renewed energy; his ball lightning might make his stomach churn with what it could do, but it was pretty. And anyway, no one will get through to this layer. It won’t be necessary, and so he can content himself with knowing that the energy he pours into it is an extra precaution, nothing more.

Three down, Josh reflects to himself, surveying the orange sitting beside the red and white. Yellow is next, and he allows his feather-light body to drift away from the lightning and into his outer shields. He’s not sure, but he’s always suspected that this is the point where reality starts to encroach on his mind; it’s easier for him to focus on the cube under his hands, and birds fly through it occasionally.

Today it’s empty, though, and he drifts through the silent white of snow swirling around him. Most days, he knows without thinking that the flakes escaping from the vortex of his shield will melt before they hit the ground, and sometimes evaporate as well, but today they won’t. Slush is collecting on the streets surrounding his apartment, quickly staining grey and brown.

Large as it is, that shield tends to be fine, and he quickly moves on. Blue and green are left, cool and soft and horribly elusive. He remembers how he’d learned that most Guides only ever had three shields, even if they could solve the whole cube, but he’s never been typical, he supposes. It’s here that the reason for his constant adjustment lies, in the holes he can feel in his defenses.

Knowing that he can’t fix it entirely is somewhat freeing, however. He traces the feather that drifts through the air to him, eyes it critically, but doesn’t exert his power like he’d done with the third shield. He’s never understood the feathers in his fifth layer any more than he’s understood the blue and green sides of his cube, but he doesn’t need to understand it to reinforce it.

He flits from feather to feather, touching each lightly as he passes it. They’re black and brown, striped and mottled and plain. Whatever birds they come from, they must be large, because each one is almost as long as his forearm. There’s a whimsy to them that he still appreciates, though it’s distant, a remnant of who he used to be.

Even after he’s found all of them, there’s a spot of green in the middle of the blue, and vice versa. It’s not too frustrating, though, so he can set the cube down and dig through his fridge for leftover pizza without dwelling on it. He feels calmer, even slightly tired as if he’d just gone for a jog, but he knows he’s not done yet. If he’s going to be practicing his skills, he’s going to be thorough. He has to be.

\------------

Inactivity is beginning to make Ethan’s whole body vibrate with excess energy. This morning he and Benedict had gotten food together, but the outing had been short and unsatisfactory. Now he’s been reduced to running through every exercise he can think to do in a hotel room while Brian types away, hair falling in his face and staying there when he doesn’t break his concentration even to tuck it back again.

Midway through his crunches Brian’s back goes from its hunched curve to ramrod straight, and he’s twirling his laptop towards Ethan before he can ask what’s happened. “Is this him?” Brian asks, nervous as always, worried about being contradicted.

But Ethan knows instantly that Brian isn’t mistaken. It’s there in the softness of the jaw, clean-shaven and feminine in a way that’s typical of Guides. His eyes look haunted in the grainy photo, as young as Ethan, if not younger. “That’s him,” Ethan confirms, swallowing hard around the lump that’s suddenly sprung up in his throat.

“Fucking finally,” Benedict says, slamming down the book he’d been reading and grabbing his gun from where it sat, casually, on the beige bedspread. “Where and who is this bugger?”

Brian smiles something small and shy and entirely out of place on a balding thirty year old’s face. “Joshua Kendrick,” he recites. “Not registered as a Guide with any towers I could find, orphaned at fourteen in an unusual abuse case. Father was a Sentinel, mother was a Guide. Aside from that, there’s not much there; he’s lived a quiet life. Dropped out of high school at sixteen, left the foster care system to live on his own.”

Benedict’s nodding along, running through the check he always does to make sure he has everything he needs before leaving, but Ethan can barely drag his eyes from the screen to land on the bland carpeting. _Joshua,_ he hears the name echoing in his mind the same way he’d felt the imprint of the man’s empathy on him, lingering. But now he can’t focus on it, or else he’ll sink into thoughts he can’t afford to indulge in, things like whether he goes by Josh or Joshua, what his voice sounds like when he says his own name.

“He...” Brian hesitates before delivering the next bit of news. “He hasn’t been seen in hours. The last time I can pick up anything about him was last night, when he was sighted leaving a, ah,” Brian flushes just slightly, “gay bar downtown. He was with a larger man, as yet unidentified.”

Cursing, Benedict ceases his check and sits back in the armchair in the corner of the room. “You set up an alert for him yet?” He asks, obviously trying not to let the way his teeth are gritted turn his voice into an incomprehensible growl.

“Uh, yeah,” Brian says, his body shrinking away from Benedict’s intimidating anger but his face full of incredulous indignance. “Do you think I’m an amateur?”

Dragging himself from his wrestling match with his own thoughts, Ethan glares at Brian. “Approximately how long will it be until we receive an alert?” He asks, formality taking over where composure cannot. Benedict gives him an odd look, but he ignores it; he can’t afford to dwell right now, he needs orders, needs a course of action.

Hesitating again, Brian admits, “I don’t know.” He sounds genuinely regretful, not simply fearful of Ethan’s reaction, but it still makes him deflate. It had already been nearly the whole day; how hard could it be, to find one single man when they already knew his identity? Ethan goes back to his crunches with a vigor, ignoring Brian’s questioning gaze.

An hour later Ethan hunches over a newspaper, flipping through it aimlessly, feeling as though he’s about to twitch his way straight out of his skin and begin running around the room with his muscles exposed. A chime from Brian’s computer makes his head shoot up, gaze zeroing in on the way Brian’s fingers have suddenly begun flying across the keys.

“We found him,” Brian declares, and at once the room is a flurry of motion, Ethan shooting up as if he’s been electrocuted and Benedict moving briskly, not wasting a single second. Blinking at the sudden motion, Brian folds his laptop and stands, swaying slightly. “He’s close by, an ice cream shop. Payed with his debit card. I’ll navigate on the way.”

“Good job kid,” Benedict says, opening the door and striding out, paying no attention to Brian’s yelp and the way he hastily pulls on his shoes. Ethan is a half-step behind, too close to be strictly comfortable, but he can’t wait a second longer. “Let’s go get our freak Guide.”

Ethan can’t help himself, and in his head he corrects Benedict. _Joshua,_ he thinks, his name is Joshua. And old-fashioned name, biblical, but somehow appropriate. Despite the darkness of his hair, the curls had reminded Ethan of painted cherubs he’d seen when he’d once been in a museum. Impatiently, he shakes the memory off, frowning at himself. He has more important things to do now.

\------------

Nursing his chocolate malt milkshake, Josh eyes the ice cream shop warily. He’d arrived a full ten minutes early, but now it’s been nearly twenty minutes and Maria still hasn’t shown up. He’s about ready to call it quits and simply haul ass to her apartment again when a stranger sits across from him, straight blond hair falling to the small of her back and large sunglasses obscuring her face. She licks a scoop of strawberry on a cone, inscrutable behind the mirrored lenses.

“Do you mind?” Josh asks, allowing boredom and annoyance to leak into his voice. It’s never good to encourage girls like this, he’s learned.

“Not at all,” the woman says, in Maria Guerra’s voice. His gaze snaps to her, reassessing. Yes, that’s the same body type, the same caramel skin, but she’s turned herself into someone a decade younger and full of bubblegum-pink personality.

Smiling appreciatively at her disguise, Josh replies, “Neither do I.” Maria slides her sunglasses down her nose, winking at him exaggeratedly. They eat in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Josh pulls away from his straw and leans back in his seat. “So,” he says.

“So...” Maria sighs, bracing her elbow on the table and leaning her cheek on her palm. “Two days ago tower enforcers broke into my home and took Ashton,” her voice is so casual, her posture so relaxed, that if Josh hadn’t been able to feel the metaphysical tension rolling off of her he would never have known that she didn’t like the topic.

“Tower enforcers,” she continues, “from the nearest federally-run tower. Not the local one.” Josh nods, slowly, keeping his own posture relaxed as hers. She’s not whispering, exactly, but her voice is low enough that Josh feels hyper aware of their surroundings. Clearly, she thinks there’s a threat, and with her Sentinel-senses it’s possible that she’s picking up on something Josh can’t see or hear.

If they hadn’t been local enforcers, then they hadn’t taken Ashton in for being unregistered. Had they been up to other illegal things? Was that why Maria hadn’t called down the fury of the media upon the tower for what was essentially a kidnapping? “Ok,” Josh says, pushing away his other questions and settling on one that had been lingering in his mind since he’d laid eyes on the Sentinel who had hunted him, “but what did they do to that Sentinel to cause that huge fainting fest?”

Pride glitters in Maria’s eyes, dark and fierce. “High level Guides can cause a lot of damage, if given the right incentive,” she grins at him, “as I’m sure you know.” Josh shudders, nods, but doesn’t respond. “It turns out that the Sentinel was stronger than Ashton expected, and she didn’t have the juice to knock him out, but she did manage to zone him.”

“Makes sense,” he says, keeping his voice measured carefully, but under the table his hands are in fists. He isn’t sure why; it wasn’t like they’d been trying to kill him, since Guides didn’t have the juice for that (well, most Guides), and even if they had been, why would he care? The Sentinel was just another tower dog, he’d _hunted him._

Eyeing him shrewdly, Maria says, “What _I_ want to know,” she leans forward, blond strands pooling on the table between them, “is how you knew that Ashton did something to a Sentinel to cause that.”

To his credit, Josh doesn’t waver a bit. “Last night I was tracked after I left your apartment,” he continues the casual tone of the conversation, talking over Maria’s hissed breath. “There were two normal people and a Sentinel, and the Sentinel was pretty strong, to say the least.” He looks back at Maria’s eyes now, but she’s pushed her sunglasses up and he can’t see them anymore.

Silence stretches between them, long and pregnant, and then Maria reaches out to touch Josh’s cheek lightly. He grits his teeth and bears it, cursing his Guide features for making him look so soft and approachable. “I’m sorry,” she says, genuinely. “Were you able to get away?”

Josh shrugs when she pulls away, trying not to show how relieved he is that the brief, pitying contact is gone. “Yeah,” he says honestly. “They didn’t see my face. Anyway,” he sips his milkshake again, “I’m not done with my questions.”

Mouth quirking in something resembling a grin, Maria says simply, “Shoot. We haven’t got all day.”

“Why haven’t you gone to the police? And why was it the federal enforcers? You can’t just expect me to fucking guess it. I’m a Guide, not clairvoyant.” The three words send a thrill of fear through his blood, despite his reassuring himself that there’s no one watching. _I’m a Guide._ It feels like a lie, even though he knows it isn’t.

This time the silence lasts so long that Josh is nearly tempted to break it himself, but eventually Maria answers. “Same answer for both questions,” she says, and Josh is about to protest that that is just as cryptic as before thank you very much, but she cuts him off. “ _Think,_ Josh. Unregistered, high-level, well connected Guide. What could Ashton do that would get the attention of the federal tower?”

 _Oh._ Josh feels his eyes go wide, his mouth shaping the word _terrorist_ without giving voice to it. Maria smiles bitterly in confirmation anyway, apparently understanding him even without hearing the word. He’s about to open his mouth again, ask another question, but then something else catches his attention and makes his newly-frozen heart crack down the middle and beat in double time.

The sun he’s beginning to hate is dimming again, and growing _close._ It hadn’t left the night before, but he’d hoped that it hadn’t stayed for this. It’s just like last time, except now he’s in a public space, and he has a moment to furiously search for the link inside him before he realizes that they must have tracked him with much more conventional means this time.

“Speak of the fucking devil,” he mutters, and Maria’s eyebrows go up. “The feds are coming again,” he explains, her hand on her ice cream cone clenching so hard it cracks with a _crunch._ “Where do we go, how the fuck did they find us again?”

Unceremoniously, Maria stands and grabs Josh’s wrist with her clean hand, the other still dripping pink sweetness from between her fingers. She offers no explanation as she dumps the ruined ice cream in the trash can and strides from the store, Sentinel-strong grip bruising his wrist. Josh can’t even protest, he’s too focused on his metaphysical face pressed to his telescope, watching the Sentinel approach. The same two companions are with him again, but this time they look even dimmer than usual too; did they think that the Guideine was the reason Josh hadn’t been able to manipulate the Sentinel?

Maria guides him into the women’s bathroom, and before he can protest she’s whipping off her pink hat, then pulling the wig and wig cap after it. Her black hair is surprisingly long, and she places the hat back on her head, then starts pulling the wig cap over his crown roughly, quickly. He only barely manages to slap her hands away and do it himself before she’s jamming the long, blond wig into his hands. Wordlessly, he puts it on, realizing what she’s doing now.

“Keep close to me,” she orders in a hushed voice, speaking quickly, “and don’t question where we’re going.” Josh starts to say okay but she’s already whirling away, and he has to rush to keep up with her on his shorter legs. Despite her age and her round physique she’s in surprisingly good shape, and he races after her down the sidewalk, half following the flow of foot traffic and half weaving through it to move more quickly.

It’s like the world’s least fun obstacle course, with the stakes higher than they have any right to be. He keeps one eye on the sun in his mind and the other on Maria’s back clad in a wine-red coat, distinctive color helping him keep track of her as she slowly pulls ahead, only to wait just long enough for him to catch up and then set off again. There’s a moment where the sun pauses at the ice cream parlor before setting off again, no doubt having caught their scents. Josh hopes desperately Maria knows what she’s doing.

They mostly keep to the main roads at first, but then all at once she’s taking a sharp turn into an alley, leaving Josh to scramble after her before the milling crowd can carry him past it. He glimpses her turning left as he stumbles from the throng, and finds himself following without a second thought, hope rising in him. She’s going to take them past a dumpster, past something that smells strong enough to throw the Sentinel off, he’s sure of it.

When he brings her into sight again, however, she’s holding an aerosol can in her hand, spraying herself down. Josh wants to collapse with the relief he feels flooding his system; Sentinel friendly deodorant, the expensive kind that was truly scentless, would block out any trace of their smell from the air. She tosses him the can when she’s done and he follows suit, grinning widely at her.

Then they’re off again, feet pounding on the sidewalk, slipping occasionally on wet slush or ice. Josh continues to track the Sentinel in his head carefully, barking a sharp laugh when he reaches the spot where Josh and Maria had erased their scents. What dim light there is emanating from the sun turns blue, determined but hesitant, unsure.

And then it keeps moving along their route.

Reaching out and catching Maria’s arm, Josh tugs on her just enough that she draws nearly level with him. Leaning forward, still moving as quickly as he can given the crowd, Josh tells her, “It didn’t work.”

Her foot slips at that, nearly sends her sprawling before her Sentinel reflexes can catch her. “It had to,” she says, denying the truth he can feel echoing in his bones.

“They’re still coming after us,” Josh says, and then he hesitates. But he’s better able than Maria to deal with this, whether or not she knows it, and so he continues with, “I’ll throw them off.”

“No,” she says, but he’s already dropping back. She half turns and catches his shoulder, dragging him forward with her like she had in the parlor before. “If we can get to where I’m trying to get us, we’ll be safe.” Intrigue pricks at Josh, but the urgency is stronger, the sun so close and moving faster than them, leaving behind first one, then both companions it had been traveling with.

“He’s practically on top of us,” Josh’s voice has gone icy cold without his permission, but he doesn’t have time for pleasantries. “Take care of yourself, I can deal with this.” With that he rips himself away and ducks into another alley, the privacy of abandoned streets more appropriate for what he’s planning. For a moment he’s worried that Maria is going to try to go after him, but she only slows for a second before she’s rushing again. Evidently, she’s given him up for lost.

This suits Josh just fine. He continues to move, sensing the moment the Sentinel picks up the point where he and Maria had split up. To his relief there’s no hesitation, the tower evidently more interested in a powerful rogue Guide than a terrorist’s wife. A minute later he hits a dead end and stops, panting.

He doesn’t have long to wait before the Sentinel is there, blocking off his only exit. He looks even larger when he’s better lit, and Josh takes in the faint freckles littering his cheeks with a detachment borne from the fact that if he’s not detached now he’s going to panic. “Surrender, Joshua Kendrick,” the low voice rumbles out, and Josh bares his teeth in a smile.

“Never,” he spits, as if that voice hadn’t sent a shiver up his spine. And then he does the same thing he’d done the night before, only this time he brings to bear every inch of his training, every speck of control he’d lost to instinct. _Calm,_ he impresses on the Sentinel, Calm down, it’s fine, **relax.**

For a moment the Sentinel’s shoulders unravel, and he goes to one knee. But it’s not enough, and he’s rising again in a moment, a low growl on his lips. _Can’t you see the colors?_ Josh asks, changing tacks, _grays and reds and blue. They’re dull, but how dull are they? What’s their value?_ The Guideine fights at first, but then Josh can feel it bow to his suggestion, allow the sun to blaze brighter.

But the sentinel doesn’t bow. He doesn’t drop again, doesn’t allow his eyes to go unfocused and ears to go deaf. One step, two, and then Josh is backed into the wall and he _never_ wants to be in this position unless he’s the one who initiated it. Bristling, Josh spreads his stance as if he could fight.

Small as he is, though, he _can’t,_ and he knows it. He can’t run either, wouldn’t even want to, but he doesn’t have enough time to formulate a proper plan against this monster of a Sentinel so instead he falls back on the memory of last night, the one thing that had affected the Sentinel then. Fear creeps in and darkens the edges of his vision, but Josh can’t hesitate with the Sentinel’s hand reaching out for him in what looks like slow motion.

Three hundred and seventeen shields drop at once, leaving only the base five protecting Josh from the deluge of thoughts and feelings of the world around him. His sky is ten shades brighter, his castle lit from within by strings of fairy lights, but that’s not important. What’s important is the Sentinel.

It’s not instantaneous. First the Sentinel’s pupils blow wide, then his knees buckle. This time he falls on both of them, hard enough that Josh worries for his bones on the hard asphalt for a moment before the Sentinel is leaning in towards him and Josh registers what’s happened. Feeling a sense of dawning horror, Josh starts to step away from the Sentinel, planning to get away from him an the alley both, but then it occurs to him that he _can’t._

Whoever he is, this Sentinel is more powerful than any Josh has ever met before. He’s been able to resist empathy, track scents that shouldn’t exist. Leaving him in the alley isn’t an option even if Josh is certain that he can’t follow right now, because all it means is that he’ll come back later. Leaning down so that his face is level with the Sentinel’s, Josh eyes him critically.

“Do you have tracking devices on you?” he asks, staring straight into the blue eyes that have gone soft with something that’s only a half step from contentment. A thrill starts to run through him at that, hope that the look isn’t only a result of their compatibility, but it’s hollow. There’s no opportunity here for anything other than hunted and hunter, he knows.

“Yes,” comes the reply, rumbling voice slightly dreamy. Josh has to resist the urge to reach out and touch the Sentinel’s hair, knowing that physical contact will awaken in him the same instincts that are pounding through the Sentinel now.

Quietly, Josh orders, “Remove them.” Nodding, the Sentinel begins pulling small, metal discs from his pockets, a pin from his collar, something that looks disturbingly like a small dart from his shirtsleeve. When he stills again Josh hesitates, then says, “Stand.”

Moving as though he’s not entirely sure of his balance, the Sentinel does, though he begins to frown. “You’re to come with me,” he says, sounding lost. Josh isn’t certain he can get them both where he needs them to go if the Sentinel continues resisting, feeble as it is, so he steels himself.

Under his hand, the Sentinel’s is warm and dry, heavily calloused. He can feel it now, possessiveness leaking through his fifth shield in drips and dribbles, a flash of a mental image that takes his breath away. The Sentinel under him, calling out his name, something too tempting to be a good idea.

Contact ends up being a good idea, for all that it makes Josh’s concentration waver; the Sentinel goes well and truly pliable, and then they’re off, speed walking away. Josh longs to burst into another run, or at least a jog, but even their current pace makes the Sentinel sway slightly, and he doesn’t want to risk it. Protectiveness wells alongside the possessiveness, dark as the night sky.

Josh only narrowly avoids taking them to his home, instead leading the Sentinel to a cheap motel on the edge of the city. But when he situates the Sentinel on the bed, guiding and ordering each movement and marveling when the Sentinel responds with perfect obedience, he’s filled with a sense of foreboding. He sits beside the Sentinel on the bed, pressed together from shoulder to hip, and rides the shudder that goes through the sentinel with the contact.

“What’s your name?” he asks eventually, when the sound of their breathing in the small, dirty room gets to be too much.

“Ethan,” the Sentinel says, and then he turns to stare at Josh, so close to his face and looming over him but looking so vulnerable. “And you’re Joshua?”

Absently, Josh corrects him, “Josh.”

Ethan nods, sounds out the word, “Josh.” Heat pools in Josh’s gut, and he leans forward despite himself, sensations sinking into his hindbrain and encouraging it. _Fuck, but we’re in trouble,_ he has time to think, just before the Sentinel’s mouth seals itself over his.


	6. Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a formal apology to anyone who doesn’t like how I’m tagging the character’s names, btw. But for anyone who _does,_ I’ve got a question for you!! How would _you_ nickname the characters of this fic? I need to know!!!

The entire world feels afloat around Ethan, as if he’s been cast into the air and become as light as a feather, so he can simply float there completely relaxed. Josh’s lips feel right under his, taking control of the kiss in seconds and sliding open, encouraging Ethan to follow suit. It’s strangely gentle, calming, and when he tastes Josh under his tongue peppery and fresh it deepens the haze over his mind.

He can’t seem to process what’s happening entirely, could only follow Josh’s orders from the moment that he did... whatever it was he did. Something about it nags at Ethan’s mind, reminds him that he shouldn’t be yielding to a man who’s practically a stranger, an enemy, but it’s hard to hear the cautioning voice when every other piece of him is crying out that this is _right._

Josh’s hand on his chest pushes him backwards, a gentle suggestion that Ethan responds to immediately, laying back on the bed and allowing Josh to straddle him. Desperate for more contact, Ethan reaches up to tangle his hands in those inviting curls at last, but then Josh’s hands come down on his wrists, frail grip making him freeze. Josh guides his hands above his head and Ethan leaves them there, blinks up at him when Josh pulls away.

His skin is darker than Ethan’s, but nearly everyone’s is. His eyelashes are thick and long, brushing his round cheeks when he blinks. His hazel irises are nearly swallowed by his pupils, and his lips are flushed kiss-red. The layers of clothing he wears seem entirely too thick to Ethan, t-shirt under flannel under a worn black coat, and he longs to strip them off of him, but he can’t move his hands. So instead he stares up at Josh, his mouth slightly open, as much pleading in his eyes as he can put there.

“Gods,” Josh says, his voice an octave lower than it had been, even that single syllable thick with lust. Ethan squirms to hear it, feels Josh’s cock hard against his lower stomach. “Look at those pupils,” he strokes Ethan’s cheek with his fingertips, tracing his jaw. Obediently, Ethan tilts his head up, allowing Josh easier access to his neck, and revels in the hitched breath it earns him.

A voice Ethan hardly recognizes as his own, cracking and higher than it should be, pours out of him in a whine when Josh’s hands begin to pet down his chest, small palms firmly kneading the muscle there. “Please,” he says, hands twitching but remaining in place. “Sir, it’s not enough.”

The honorific came out reflexively, habit so deeply ingrained that Ethan wouldn’t have even paid it any mind if it hadn’t made Josh groan. “Oh, you _are,_ aren’t you?” Ethan opens his mouth to ask what he is, to beg more, he isn’t sure, but fingers slip into it before he can. “Suck,” Josh says, and Ethan nods enthusiastically.

It’s hard to keep track of everything that’s happening, his back flat on the lumpy bed, Josh’s fingers compressing his tongue and stroking along it when he tries to wrap it around them. His nails feel slightly ticklish so deep in his throat, and Ethan can sense himself floating upwards, higher and higher, air thin but warm around him. Only the gravity of Josh’s thighs bracketing his body, pulling him down, keeps him from drifting off entirely.

He realizes that the darkness of the sky is actually his own eyelids only when they flutter open again as Josh pulls his fingers back. Ethan chases them as best he can with his body pinned, his tongue slipping out only to be caught between Josh’s teeth. It hurts, but for some reason the pain feels even better than Josh’s tongue sliding against his, and his cock twitches in his pants.

Slick fingers push his shirt up, paint a trail of his own saliva along his stomach. Arching into the touch, Ethan gasps, his hands finally coming down from their position to attempt to unbutton his shirt. Except that Josh stops touching him when he moves, and Ethan moans pitifully, but Josh doesn’t caress him again until his hands resume their position. “Good,” he purrs, prompting another noise from the back of Ethan’s throat.

Enduring the teasing as best he can, Ethan feels himself sinking down from the sky with frustration. Which is wrong, because he wants to fly higher, wants to surrender himself to whatever touches Josh decides to give him. He can’t stop himself in the end, however, and his hips buck up, grinding his erection into Josh’s ass.

Instantly Josh freezes, and Ethan starts apologizing around his mouth, tears burning in his eyes. “I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry, I’ll control myself-” Josh cuts him off with a gentle kiss, languid, and it’s not the heat Ethan craves but it’s enough that he relaxes again.

When Josh pulls away again, however, his eyes are dark with something other than lust. Ethan tries to push up into him, but Josh is sliding down his body, breaking their eye contact. Worry knots in Ethan’s stomach, only to dissipate when he kisses Ethan’s abs where his shirt rode up, blows across damp tracks of Ethan’s spit and makes goosebumps raise all along his skin.

Josh unbuttons and unzips Ethan’s pants slowly, grazing his teeth along his hips when he pulls them down and reveals his boxer briefs. Hazel eyes meet Ethan’s teary ones for a moment, looking up through dark lashes, and then Josh tugs down and reveals Ethan’s dick, hard and flushed red at the tip. Appreciation chases whatever had drawn Josh out of the moment away, and he trails a single finger up Ethan’s dick, satisfaction glittering in his eyes when a pearly bead of precum appears. “You’re clean, right?” He asks, but he sounds distracted.

Confused, Ethan responds, “Yes sir.” Somehow he didn’t expect what comes next, Josh’s hand wrapping around him and his head dipping down, kissing away the precum. He whimpers, his spine arching involuntarily as Josh’s lips part and sink down around him. The suction is like nothing Ethan’s felt before, and he’s nearly sobbing with it, his hips rocking until Josh’s hands come down and force him still.

Sucking harder, Josh pulls up slowly, Ethan’s hips trembling under his hand. Every inch of Ethan’s body feels like a wire, pulled tight and plucked into vibrating where Josh touches him; it’s wonderful but it’s too much, he hasn’t had this much stimulation in _years._ Josh sinks back down and Ethan feels the head of his cock pressing to his throat, and before he can even process that Josh is swallowing around him and he’s sinking deeper.

It’s too much, it pushes Ethan over the edge all at once and then he’s coming down Josh’s throat, crying out when he feels Josh swallow again. Once he’s done Josh releases him from his mouth with a _pop,_ a thin thread of saliva connecting them for a moment more before it breaks. He slinks his way back up Ethan’s body to his flaming face, even hotter than his cock had been encased in Josh’s mouth.

“Open,” Josh orders, and Ethan immediately obeys, moaning his appreciation when Josh licks the taste of his own cum into his mouth. He hears the clink of metal and rustle of cloth as Josh undoes his belt and pulls his pants down, and Ethan opens his eyes and pulls back enough to watch as Josh releases himself from red boxers.

Hunger wets his mouth, floods it with saliva, and Josh sucks in another sharp breath at whatever look is on Ethan’s face now. “Come here,” he says, and Ethan comes, allowing Josh to rearrange him until he’s on his hands and knees, Josh kneeling on the bed in front of him and that lovely cock inches from his mouth.

Still enthusiastic despite having come, Ethan pushes forward faster than Josh had, nosing at his black, curly pubic hair for a moment before licking up his cock. He completely forgets the lingering soreness from his Commander’s punishment until he has Josh’s cock in his mouth, a bare half inch left before he’d be bottomed out, and suddenly the building pain makes him wince.

Gentle hands cup his cheeks, push him backwards and then tilt his face up so that he makes eye contact with Josh. He’s frowning, and that makes Ethan’s hands fist in the bedsheets. He wants to do a good job and Josh isn’t _letting him,_ is already rearranging them again until their chests are pressed together. Ethan doesn’t fight him, but he whines pathetically, pawing at Josh’s arm in the hopes that the wordless plea will be rewarded.

In the end, though, Josh takes Ethan’s hand and guides it downwards, towards his still spit soaked cock. It’s not what Ethan wants but it’s enough, and his hand is so large compared to Josh that he can encase it in pressure even so. He moves his hand quickly, desperate for- he isn’t sure, but he needs it soon.

He gets exactly what he’d wanted in the form of a choked groan, “ _Ethan_ ” spilling from Josh’s lips into the air between them, hot against Ethan’s cheek. Cum spurts in white stripes across his fingers, sticky and satisfying, leaving the both of them panting into their shared air. They simply lay there for a few minutes longer, Ethan basking in the glowing haze that seems to fill the air around them, but eventually Josh tucks himself into his pants again and gets up to leave.

A wounded noise breaks free from Ethan before he can catch it again, and though he immediately apologizes, “sorry” slurring into itself over and over, the dark worry is clouding Josh’s gaze again.

“Sh,” Josh says, touching Ethan’s forehead with the backs of his fingers. “I’m just gonna get a wash cloth. I’ll be right back.” Ethan takes a deep breath, nods, but still misses the feeling of another body beside him until Josh comes back and sits on the bed, taking Ethan’s hand and cleaning it carefully.

“What are you doing?” Ethan asks, words still slightly slurred from the bonelessness that seems to be permeating his body. Josh looks puzzled for a moment, even as he’s wiping off his own cock with a casual air that makes Ethan blush.

“Aftercare,” Josh answers simply, and then he’s cleaning Ethan the same way he’d cleaned himself, touches firm but not intended to arouse. When he’s done he begins unbuttoning Ethan’s shirt, and then he pulls off the layers of his own clothing, so that they lie together with bare skin touching from hips to shoulders.

“What’s that?” Ethan asks, melting into Josh’s touch when the Guide’s fingers stroke over his shoulders slowly. The touch stutters at Ethan’s words, but doesn’t stop. Josh doesn’t bother answering either, though, and Ethan’s curiosity dissipates fast, exhaustion pulling at him insistently.

Hands that had been stroking along his flanks dip behind his back, though, and the dull throb of pain wakes Ethan enough to take in the horror on Josh’s face. “Sh,” Ethan says, echoing what Josh had said before. Sleep takes the rest of the words from his mouth, and anything else he’d wanted to say is swallowed when his eyelids flutter shut one last time.

\------------

Holding his breath, Josh waits for Ethan to say more. But his breathing has deepened in sleep, and even when Josh pulls back he doesn’t wake. Fighting the revulsion welling in him, Josh gently pushes Ethan so that he’s more fully on his side, and then he tugs the pale blue shirt up, revealing a sight that makes his stomach turn.

“What’s aftercare, he says,” Josh mutters, taking in the obvious bruises and cuts from what must have been an intense flogging. There are scars under them, shiny and slightly raised, evidence of skin that knows pain intimately well. And Ethan had been so wonderfully submissive, Josh is almost certain that he’s a masochist, but this...

There was sadism, and then there was _sadism._ Josh might enjoy the rare occasions he’d been able to net a partner who wanted him to dominate them, but whoever had done this to Ethan had clearly done it without thinking for his feelings at all. The marks crossed the line of his spine, wrapped around his ribs in a way that must have burned. The fact that the scars seemed to indicate that it was a regular occurrence was even more sinister; was this how the tower disciplined new recruits?

Replacing the shirt slowly, Josh settles down beside Ethan again. The worries thumping through him remind him of other things, things that had somehow been driven from his mind over and over again, each time Ethan had made a new sound. Some were easy things to think about, like how Ethan had said he was clean but Josh had no way of knowing if Ethan was right for sure.

Others were harder. Ethan’s companions, more than a mile away now, the light of their consciousnesses brighter since the Guideine had worn off. Ethan’s sore throat, and what it meant if it was connected to the marks on his back. Maria, and whatever safe zone she’d been trying to lead him too, now so far that he couldn’t sense her.

Wait. He cast his mind out, focusing on the memory of her, heat and bubbling rock, confusion rolling off of him in a wave so strong he’s certain it would have woken Ethan if he was a Guide instead of a Sentinel. She’d said they were close to their destination, hadn’t she? But if she was still in the city, he should be able to sense her. Unless they had been headed to some kind of subway, or a car to pick them up?

No, there she is. He senses her as a flicker, light twinkling like there were planets passing over it from far away. That doesn’t make any sense, though; Josh has never felt someone flicker like that, even when they were on the edge of losing consciousness. His attention sharpens, dives like a blade up into the sky, not wanting to risk the city now that he knows there’s at least one person who can hold his wisps of cloud hostage.

Surrounding Maria’s consciousness is a cluster of other lights, various strengths and colors, but all flickering the same way hers was. It occurs to him that perhaps the safe zone she’d been taking him to was meant to be safe from Guides, as well, and he can’t help but feel awed at it. Impressed wouldn’t be enough, for something like this. It’s unprecedented, the kind of thing only rumors of military and tower tech talked about.

If that’s what it is, though, then Josh should probably be very worried. Maria is, after all, part of a terrorist organization, and the fact that they have so much technology is a sign that they’re well connected, as well as being well funded. Looking down at Ethan and remembering the scars on his back, though, Josh finds that he doesn’t mind these terrorists having a bit more of an edge.

As interesting as it all is, Josh can’t act on any of it. Ethan had dropped far and fast, likely due to the fact that, apparently, he and Josh were extremely compatible (Ethan’s mouth on him, eyes worshipful and devoted, he could be art if someone only knew how to paint him) and adrenaline had heightened the experience. It didn’t help that Josh had only met two other Sentinels he felt any compatibility with at all in the past, and those times had been nothing to this one. He can’t leave Ethan alone, now, and risk him waking up on his own.

Of course, there’s also the fact that Ethan’s the enemy. It’s so easy for Josh to forget, mostly because he wants not to think about the implications of his most compatible Sentinel being on the side of the tower, but also because he looks so small asleep, his body gone soft and pliable, hair falling out of its ponytail. Carefully, Josh undoes the tie holding it back and allows it to splay on the pillow beneath him like a halo.

In any event he can’t leave Ethan unattended, and he likely shouldn’t fall asleep and risk waking up to a confused and angry Sentinel. He wishes he could contact Maria, but she’s so far away and they never exchanged phone numbers or email addresses. His phone is probably nearly dead, anyway, so he’s left to sit and brainstorm. There is something he can try, but his empathy already sends soreness over his skin when he tries to flex it, like an overused muscle.

Suddenly, the same phone he’d been despairing at goes off in his pocket, vibrations prompting Ethan to stir, but not wake. Josh gets off the bed and pads into the bathroom carefully, closing the door behind him before he taps on his screen to accept the call. “Hello?” He keeps his voice pitched low, but not so much to be a whisper.

“Josh,” Ruth sounds relieved, and there’s a _whump_ sound as she sits in what is undoubtedly one of the many bean bags in her apartment. “Where have you been? Have you been watching the news? They’re saying- well, never mind, I know they’re wrong, but anyway where are you?”

“Slow down,” Josh says, taking his own advice and drawling the vowels. He’s only teasing because it’s routine, so when it actually succeeds at getting her to calm somewhat it’s pleasant coincidence.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, sighing heavily. “But seriously dude, you’re like, on the wanted list. They’re saying it’s suspected terrorist connections, can you fucking believe it?”

Of all the things they could have chosen to accuse him of, the irony of that one isn’t lost on him. “Is there a reward out for info on me?” He teases wryly, “Is that why you’re asking where I am?”

“No, Jesus,” Ruth says, over-scandalized. “Well, actually yes, there is a reward out for you, but that’s not why I’m asking. I was starting to get worried that you’d like, gotten yourself hauled in by the police already or something.” Ruth’s loyalty makes Josh’s stomach twist, especially when he considers what he might have to do.

“Nope, I’m safe and sound in a motel on the edge of town,” Josh says, and Ruth’s snorting laughter would be a balm on his frayed nerves any other day, but today he just turns his own tense moue toward himself in the mirror.

“Oh my gods. While you’re suspected of terrorist connections you’re off getting laid? Ass.” Ruth’s so close to the truth that Josh can’t even fake a laugh. He swallows the lump in his throat, then coughs.

“Basically, yeah,” he admits. And then he does something he’s not certain he’ll forgive himself for. “Actually, could you come pick us up? The guy crashed right after he came and he’s way too fucking heavy for me to haul him back to his house by myself.”

Ruth’s eye roll is practically audible, familiar and trusting and unbearable at the moment. “Yeah, whatever,” Ruth says, rustling crackling over the phone when she stands up from the bean bag. “You shouldn’t be walking around right now anyway, not until the police realize they fucked up and figure out who they should actually be looking for. Text me the address.”

“See you soon.” Josh hangs up as soon as she echoes him, and then taps out their location. If his phone is being monitored, they’re screwed, but somehow he doubts it; it’s trackable, and if they already had an eye on it he and Ethan wouldn’t have made it as far as they did. The realization that he had been even closer to being captured than he’d realized at the time makes him shudder.

Heading back into the bedroom to wait, Josh sits in the armchair instead of on the bed, feeling the springs digging into his ass. Slowly, he begins to replace his shields, one at a time, until he’s reached two hundred again. By the end his head has begun pounding, and he wonders why it’s taking so much effort briefly, but he doesn’t have time to dwell. Getting up and carefully redressing Ethan, Josh considers the car ride he’s facing.

Rapping knuckles on the door knock him from his thoughts, and he steels himself. He peeks through the glass fixture in the door, relief mixing with trepidation when he sees Ruth. Opening the door for her, he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Ethan’s sleeping figure, smirking as convincingly as he can. “What do you think of my newest catch?”

She doesn’t notice that anything is amiss, and it’s almost worse than it would’ve been if she had. Instead, she simply peeks above his head, then whistles. “I think I don’t know how we’re gonna fit him in my fucking car. Seriously, Josh, how do you find these guys? It’s like you’re a hulk magnet.”

Hollow as it feels, Josh still mechanically shrugs and grins, then turns and walks to the bed. “You gonna help me carry him to the car or not? I don’t wanna wake the guy, he seemed really fucking tired.” As soon as she can’t see his face the upturned lips droop, guilt churning in his gut but not spilling out past his face thanks to his shields.

“Yeah, whatever,” Ruth says, and she takes Ethan’s feet while Josh hooks his hands under his shoulders, hyper aware of the injuries there. Together they carry him to her car, and though Josh can keep up his usual banter with Ruth he can’t hide how tenderly he sets Ethan down and buckles him in. When he gets in the passenger seat beside Ruth, he can feel her eyes on him.

“Put this on,” she says, tossing him an oversized hoodie. He looks down at it in surprise, then raises his eyebrow at her, but she raises hers right back. “You’re wanted, remember? Keep the hood up so I don’t get stopped by every cop in the city. At this rate, you’re gonna be in jail before this all blows over.”

Obediently, Josh pulls the hoodie on, pushing its forest green hood up so that it obscures his face. It’s so large that it covers a good portion of his head, and he snorts. “We going to go assassinate someone?”

“Damn straight,” she agrees, pulling out of the parking lot. Her small car rumbles, age and a lack of professional maintenance showing in every bump, but though he stirs again Ethan still doesn’t wake fully. Boy sleeps like a rock. “Gonna assassinate whatever asshole framed you, is what we’re gonna do.”

Once again the guilt pours through Josh, but he doesn’t have the luxury of alleviating it. “Turn left,” he says, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He’s shocked that she hasn’t asked him yet _why_ the city thinks he’s a terrorist, but if he’s honest he thinks he already has the answer. That only makes it worse, though, and while he _knows_ it’s a bad idea, he can’t help but wish...

“No one framed me,” he mutters it before he can think, rational thought driven away by the need to keep her trust, knowledge that with the way things are spiraling out of control she might find out sooner rather than later, and if she found it out from someone other than him it would be so much worse. When he looks at her profile as she drives he sees a sixteen year old who’s newly homeless and sopping wet on his foster parent’s doorstep, a seventeen year old whose bottle of hormones seems superfluous given her Guide genes until he hears the slurs people still call her, an eighteen year old who helps him pick out his first apartment.

Thinking that he’d be able to betray her trust, even with the stakes so high, had been naive. He’s known her too long, allowed her to get too close despite knowing that something bad would happen someday. He’s always had secrets he’d had to keep from her, but this is so much bigger than that, and so many people already know, that it feels different. Still, old habits die hard, and so when he explains in a rush it’s a blended mess of truth and fiction that even he can’t really unravel in his mind.

“I met up with that investor lady, Maria Guerra, I don’t know if you know who she is but- turn right up ahead- her partner, this person named Ashton, they commissioned me to draw them but it turns out that they’re a terrorist, I think part of that BETA and I guess so is Maria and I’m starting to think they might have the right idea, like, I know it sounds crazy but-”

“What. The. Fuck.” Ruth clicks the consonants, the way she does when she’s really floored but can’t stop herself from talking. “Josh. Dude you get caught fraternizing with terrorists and then you go seduce a _Sentinel?_ What the hell is wrong with your survival skills, I swear to every god.”

Josh’s mind seems to have checked out. “Wait,” he muses, calm like a storm about to break, “I tell you that I actually was caught fraternizing with terrorists, and your first thought is that I’m a dumbass for making poor sex decisions?”

Ruth laughs, brittle and loud enough to make him wince and turn back to check on Ethan again. His face is still slack, his shoulders relaxed in a way that they hadn’t been even when he’d been deep in subspace. “I’m kind of repressing it hard right now,” she says. “Jesus christ, terrorists? Josh, I know you don’t always like towers, gods know I don’t like them much either, but that’s too much.”

Taking a deep breath, Josh considers his options. He can’t tell her he’s a Guide, it’s too much; even the fact that Maria knows has been gnawing at him, and he has no emotion invested in her, nothing to lose if he has to slam her with enough empathy to make her forget it. Ethan’s back would be compelling evidence, but it’s not his secret to betray. “They’re really convincing?” He offers, and Ruth gives him a look like something someone would level at Mulder in the X-files. “No, seriously.”

“Josh, every godsdamn cult has convincing recruiters. It’s like, how they get to exist in the first place.” She sounds nervous, but when he points out their next turn she takes it without hesitating.

“You know me, you think a cult could drag me in with a few nice words?” He leans back in his seat, trying to be the voice of reason that he’d been so often when they were teenagers and Ruth’s impulses were getting the better of her. “They make _sense,_ Ruth. And they haven’t done much terrorizing, to be honest.” At that, she nods; the fact that BETA was listed as a terrorist organization had raised more than a few eyebrows, considering the fact that they had more in common with Anonymous than most other terror organizations.

“Okay,” Ruth says, glancing in the rear view mirror at Ethan’s sleeping form for a moment before returning her eyes to the road. “Okay, let’s say I believe you. Just, please tell me you didn’t agree to do anything for them? If I find out you’ve been helping kidnap kids or some shit...”

“Fuck, no,” Josh lets all of his affront appear on his face to hide the way he’d wanted to flinch for a moment. “I wouldn’t do that, c’mon. You know me Ruth, this doesn’t change that.”

The corners of her mouth twitch upwards, fond and soft. “Yeah,” she says, “I guess so.” Josh looks at the dashboard and doesn’t think about the ancient ache in his bones; it’s one he’s used to, not sharp like the lies earlier had been, and so it’s easy to ignore.

It’s a relief when they arrive at the place where Josh can feel Maria’s flickering consciousness emanating from, and it turns out to be a hotel. He’d worried about what Ruth would say if it had been a store or parking garage or office of some kind, considering that he was here on the pretense of dropping Ethan off. She offers to come in with him, or to wait and drive him home, but he insists that he’ll be fine. He does know how to be inconspicuous, if he has to be, and eventually she drives off, his promise to call her when he’s safely home allaying her fears.

With one of Ethan’s arms around his shoulders and his feet dragging along the ground, Josh expects him to wake up at any moment. But he doesn’t, and Josh spares a moment to wonder exactly how much sleep he’s been getting lately before he walks into the hotel. It’s not dingy, exactly, but for all that it looks cared-for it’s obviously inexpensive, the sort of place that Maria Guerra wouldn’t be caught dead in, usually. It’s here, ironically, that it occurs to Josh that at some point he lost Maria’s wig, and he hopes she doesn’t mind.

The receptionist standing behind the counter didn’t seem to register when he walked in, and only looks up from her smart phone with a bored expression when he raps his knuckles on the counter, her cornrows swinging around her shoulders as she takes in his face and her eyes widen. “Oh my god,” she says, and appears to be reaching out for something under the desk.

Remembering every robbery movie ever, in which the store or bank had a call button to send the police running the second a threat was looking the wrong way, Josh almost lunges for her arm to stop her. But of course that’s the moment Tyler walks through the doors that, according to the sign beside xem, lead to the stairs. There’s a beat of silence, the receptionist’s hand paused halfway to what Josh is still certain is a button that will spell his doom, and then Tyler’s clear laugh starts up, echoing off the tiles until it feels like it’s surrounding him.

 _Well,_ Josh thinks, feeling Ethan start to move under the hand that grips his waist, _my day is officially fucked._ His eyes are gritty with lack of sleep, and when he glances at a clock he realizes that it’s past midnight. Tyler’s still laughing, the receptionist’s hand is retreating, but all Josh can think is that he is officially done.


	7. Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Who wants to ask the characters questions in the comments? No one? C’mon, please? Josh is a talkative motherfucker, he’d be happy to answer! Ruth desperately needs more love, I can’t find places to put her in the story often enough! Please? Pretty please?

Luckily, Ethan doesn’t rouse before Tyler’s laugh recedes into a low chuckle. “Oh man, and I just got finished yelling at Maria too,” xe muttered, “she’s gonna get another earful after this.” The receptionist has an amused look in her eyes, but doesn’t say anything at that. For his part, Josh is exhausted enough that he can’t even muster shock at seeing Tyler here. He’s sure it’s coming, but for now it only looms on the horizon like a storm front.

“Alright, you’re coming with me,” Tyler says, more authoritative than Josh has ever heard xem. Wearily, he obeys, shuffling to an elevator where Tyler waits, amusement still glittering in xer eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to contemplate how out of place it looks on Tyler’s usually sweet, sympathetic face, but he does have enough to stumble when xe whistles and says, “damn good job catching that one, though. He’s been a pain in the ass for forever. How did you manage it?”

“Uh,” Josh hedges, not sure how much Maria had told xem (and xe knew Maria, how had that even happened?) but xe only snorts derrisively.

“I know you’re a Guide asshole,” xe says, and Josh relaxes a bit. It’s easier, somehow, when he doesn’t have to say it himself.

Easier doesn’t exactly mean _easy,_ though, and he still mumbles when he finally answers. “We’re compatible. Dropped some of my shields and he went without a fight.” Tyler snorts at that.

“Guess that explains why he’s unconscious.” Tyler’s chortling makes Josh flush slightly, but sleep drags him from any true embarrassment that might have otherwise found him. Together they step into the elevator, and then xe pulls a key from xer pocket, inserting it into the keyhole that would allow them to access restricted floors. Xe pushes the button for the basement and they start downwards with a rattle. Josh’s legs have begun shaking, but Tyler doesn’t offer to take any of Ethan’s weight.

It isn’t long before the doors open again and Tyler’s striding down a hallway, taking small steps so Josh can keep up. “Here ya go,” xe says, opening the second door on their left and indicating the small room. Josh stumbles into it with relief, eyeing the bed excitedly, but then Tyler brushes past him and points to the wall. “You can chain him up there. I don’t think we should separate you just yet, since you’re the only one we know who can, ahem, _subdue_ him.”

Eyebrow wiggle or no, horror starts at Josh’s feet and begins to rise with what Tyler’s suggesting. But xe’s right, they can’t leave Ethan in a position where he could attack if he were to wake up. “Could you at least get me an extra set of blankets?” He asks, settling Ethan down as gently as he can, knowing the likelihood that his back will be sore in the morning.

The eyebrows that had only just fallen rise again at Josh’s suggestion, but aside from giving him a considering look Tyler seems amiable. “I’ll have Imani bring some down,” xe says, walking out of the door and leaving it gaping open behind them. Josh wearily wonders who Imani is, then decides he doesn’t care.

Only about ten minutes pass between Tyler leaving and the receptionist from before materializing, but in that time Josh finds he nearly falls asleep where he’s sitting on the floor. A blue-black hand shakes him all the way awake, and he finds himself staring at an amused grin. Gone is the startled girl who had almost ruined all of Josh’s efforts; now she looks gentle, if slightly mocking. “Here you go,” she says, holding out the large, soft bundle for Josh.

He takes it wordlessly, nodding his thanks at her. She nods back and then leaves, the door remaining open behind her as it had remained behind Tyler. Josh quickly sets to tucking the blankets around Ethan, taking special care to fold the comforter behind his back where it leans against the wall. When he’s done he gets up to close the door and nearly falls flat on his face for the trouble. _Was I this tired before?_ He wonders as he shuts the heavy wood and leans against the wall.

There’s nothing else to do though, now that that’s done, so he simply shuffles to the bed and flops onto it, fully dressed and on top of the covers. That’ll have to be enough, though, because no sooner does he close his eyes than he’s asleep.

He dreams of the second time he’d found a compatible Sentinel, this time, and it’s also the first and last time he tried to sleep with one before Ethan. But in his dreams he doesn’t knock out the Sentinel like he had in real life, doesn’t panic and run, instead he growls as soon as the Sentinel figures it out and then grips his upper arms. He pulls until the Sentinel cries out, dream-strength far beyond reality, and suddenly the Sentinel is below him and he’s riding him and it should be hot but it’s not, the Sentinel begs him to stop but he can’t seem to and he can’t tune out the begging as it gets progressively angrier, “Let me go, please, let me _out,_ where am I? Where have you taken me? _Wake up, damn it!_ ”

Sitting up with a start, feeling the sweat pouring off of him and making his rumpled shirt stick to his torso, Josh looks around wildly. The night before comes back to him in a rush, and he has a moment to feel mildly panicked about how much time has gone by, but then reality trickles in and he hears Ethan’s deep, snarling voice. “Get these off of me, you- how _dare_ you?”

Josh rubs the sleep out of his eyes, then stares at Ethan, emotions roiling in him. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to wake up to, but it hadn’t been this. The dream ghosts along the edges of his memory, still so fresh, and he shudders at it and wishes that Tyler would conveniently show up at the door, sudden personality shift or no. But the door remains stubbornly closed, and Ethan’s blue eyes, so soft the night before, look like shards of ice now.

“Could you shut up?” Josh sighs, looking away from him and down at his own lap. Ethan’s wrists have been rubbed raw where he’s been trying to tug them out of the cuffs attached to the wall, and the sight reminded him of the night before, the mottled marks on Ethan’s back.

“Shut up?” Ethan sounds so affronted that it’s almost comical. “You’ve chained me to a wall, and you expect me to be calm about it?” There’s a rattle of metal against metal as he undoubtedly yanks at the chains again, and Josh bitterly remembers his worry the night before. Evidently, the soreness isn’t bothering Ethan much.

“You expected me to go quietly with you, yesterday,” Josh says, and immediately regrets it. The room goes silent, tension skyrocketing. _Yesterday._ Even though he brought it up himself, Josh isn’t certain he’s ready to talk about it.

Ethan surprises him, though, when he says, “I didn’t.” Josh’s eyes snap back to his, taking in the solemn expression he’s adopted. _Is he this serious all the time?_ “I had to offer you the option of surrender, but I didn’t expect it. You’re strong enough to fight, and we both know it.” A sly smile breaks out across his face, nothing like the eagerness he’d shown in bed, pure predator now. “But not so strong that you felt safe to leave me alone, or unbound, apparently.”

His fingers going numb, Josh turns to glance at the door again. How is he meant to contact Tyler? He can’t see a phone anywhere in the room, and his cell is well and truly dead now. So much has happened in what feels like less than twelve hours, though he knows it could have been longer given how tired he’d been. He feels well rested now, maintaining his shields no longer makes his head pound quietly.

“Where are we?” Ethan asks again, and Josh stands up abruptly, walking to the door in a split-second decision.

“None of your damn business,” he snaps at Ethan, and then he’s got the door open and he’s striding down the hallway towards the elevator. He doesn’t make it two steps, however, before the doors open with a _ding_ and the girl from the night before comes out. Imani, Josh remembers.

Her eyes widen at the fact that he’s not in the room, and she rushes forwards, hands fluttering up from her sides. “Is he awake?” She asks, and the slight hesitation in the way she speaks reminds him of something, but he can’t quite place it right now.

“Yeah,” Josh says, “awake and pissed.” Her eyes widen for a moment, but then she composes herself again, her hands falling again.

“Right, okay,” she holds up a syringe, needle still in its plastic cover. “I’ve got some Guidine. Tyler wants to meet with you two, but xe’s too busy to come down right now, so we’re gonna dose him and bring him up.”

Shaking his head, Josh steps to the side and then follows her to the room. “It won’t help. He’s been hunting me dosed, and he’s still able to do a whole lot that normal Sentinels can’t.” They walk into the room halfway through the sentence, and Ethan’s eyes track them, slight pride glittering in them and letting Josh know that Ethan understands exactly how powerful he is.

Imani pauses, her eyes flitting between Ethan on the ground, surrounded by rumpled blankets, and Josh glaring down at him. “Um,” she pauses, looks at the useless syringe in her hand. “Do you think you could subdue him again, like you did yesterday, if we let him loose and he tried to bolt.”

Ethan _flinches,_ and Josh feels his gorge rise, the taste of bile touching the back of his tongue. “No,” he says, taking in the way Ethan relaxes. Numbness threatens again, and Josh welcomes it with open arms. “I mean, it’s possible, but I won’t. Can’t we just leave him here?”

Nervousness ripples from Imani without her seeming to notice, and Josh considers the implications of the fact that she’s neither a Sentinel nor a Guide. So there are normal people working for BETA, too? “We could,” she sounds reluctant to do it, her eyes glancing over Ethan as though even when he’s bound she considers him a threat. “The room is equipped with security and both the cuffs and the door are anti-Sentinel, so it’s unlikely he could escape...”

 _Anti-Sentinel,_ Josh thinks bitterly. It’s not surprising, but it means that they didn’t trust him after all- or is it only Tyler who doesn’t trust him? Ethan’s face clouded when he heard what Imani said, though, so Josh is fairly certain that he’s not going to be able to escape. “Okay, yeah,” Josh turns from him without another glance, “let’s go.”

Imani rushes to follow him, her footsteps quiet on the ground. She walks like a dancer, sure and graceful despite the timidness that sometimes shows, and that’s familiar but Josh _can’t place it_ and he has enough on his mind anyway, so he tries to ignore the nagging memories and simply presses the elevator call button. Beside him, the taller woman bites her thumbnail, seemingly heedless of his presence.

“So,” she begins, just as the elevator doors open. Josh nearly groans in annoyance; he is _not_ up for conversation right now. “You’re Tyler’s coworker, right?”

Now he does groan. “Fuck, I am, and I have work right now,” he grumbles. She looks at him, surprised, then smiles gently.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Tyler called you both off, and anyway no one expects you to be showing up when you’re on the wanted list.” Josh resits the urge to face-palm at himself. Despite all of his assurances to Ruth that he could handle his own problems, he’s been nothing but absent-minded thus far.

To be fair, though, he still doesn’t feel entirely normal. Numbness has creeped from his fingertips all the way up his arms, and from there it spreads to his neck, his jaw. By the time they step out of the elevator onto the tenth floor, plain black flats beside ratty sneakers that had once been green but now look vaguely grey, he’s pretty certain he can’t speak if he tries. Imani leads him to a room with a tall, glass door, Tyler standing just inside of it and talking, facing an audience they can’t see.

Knocking politely before opening the door, Imani announces, “I brought Josh Kendrick.” Tyler flashes a shark grin that makes Josh feel like flinching, but instead he steels his spine, straightens and looks into xer dark eyes, half covered in floppy red bangs.

When he looks around the room, Josh is struck by the juxtaposition. Tyler with xer sweatpants and long sleeved t-shirt, Maria sitting at what looks like a conference table in a new power suit, having changed at some point. There are two men sitting at the table with her, people Josh is relieved to realize he doesn’t recognize. One looks remarkably similar to Imani, though his hair is in dreadlocks and pulled back in a short pony tail that reminds him of the way Ethan’s hair had looked before he’d undone it. At first he thinks that the other’s remarkably short, but then he realizes that the man’s in a wheelchair, and he takes in the man’s military-perfect posture and buzzcut and tries not to make assumptions.

In his sweaty, day-old clothes and standing beside Imani’s quiet grace, he feels even more out of place; he tries not to think about that, either. Instead he strides forward, stands slightly closer to xem than is comfortable, now that he’s seen what xe’s like around these people and is left wondering which is the real Tyler. Xe meets his gaze evenly, sizing him up with apparent seriousness despite the teasing glint in xer eyes.

“Where’s the Sentinel brat?” Tyler says, prompting the man who looks like Imani to snort.

“Brat? He’s twice your size,” he says, voice rumbling just as deep as Ethan’s, if not deeper. Most days, Josh would appreciate the man’s aesthetic if nothing else, the deep-set eyes and nearly skintight red turtleneck that looks nothing if not flattering on his frame, but today he can’t even think about that without his face paling.

Waving xer hand, Tyler says, “Details.” Xer gaze feels like it’s piercing Josh, pinning him as if to a lab table. His chest goes numb.

Clearing his throat, Josh finds it easier than he’d expected to resist the urge to take a step back. “Dosing him is useless,” he explains, even and calm, “and I didn’t think you’d appreciate what I’d have to do to keep him _submissive._ ”

Tyler lets out a peal of laughter again, something very nearly delighted. Josh shrugs and walks to the table, sitting heavily beside Maria. He’d expected her to say something while they waited for Tyler’s laugh to die down again, but she only gives his state of disarray a quick, sympathetic look and then she’s already turning back to Tyler.

“So,” Tyler says once xe’s calmed, Imani standing beside xem and chewing on her thumbnail again, unselfconscious. No one else reacts, so Josh assumes it’s normal for her. “To recap, basically what we got is I can’t do my job cause _somebody,_ ” xe looks pointedly at Maria, “was dumb enough to let a untrained Guide get tagged, and everything is fucked.”

To his shock, Maria doesn’t defend herself. She ducks her head, and everyone else in the room remains silent as well. Thinking through Tyler’s words, though Josh finds himself frowning, though it feels detached. “Tagged?”

Xe rolls xer eyes, as though it’s obvious, and doesn’t answer until Imani coughs behind xem. “Tracked? Either they got a device on you or a Guide’s been keeping tabs on you since they first ran into you.”

Though he conducts a lightning fast check of his castle just to be certain, he’s sure xe’s wrong. “I made Ethan remove all of his tracking devices,” he says, “and they didn’t have a Guide with them. If they had, I would have known.”

Maria nods once when he’s done, a challenge in her eyes when she looks back at Tyler. “I told you,” she says, and though it’s soft it’s still firm. “He’s strong enough that he would’ve picked up on it, if they had. Ethan tracked his scent.”

“Through a blocker?” Tyler’s eyebrows are high, but Imani places a hand on xer shoulder, forces xem to turn xer head towards her.

“It’s possible,” she points out, though she doesn’t sound happy about it. “Josh found us here, and supposedly Maria didn’t tell him our location.”

A noise of distaste rises from Tyler’s mouth. “He doesn’t feel strong enough to do that, Imani. Maria’s obviously lying. And besides, he’s not _trained._ ”

“Actually, I am,” Josh says, and is thankful for the fact that he can’t seem to feel his eyes, because otherwise he’d be worried that they might start burning at any moment. Every head in the room swivels towards him, gazes ranging from perplexed to disbelieving. “My mom taught me, when I was younger.”

“Your mom?” Tyler says derisively, “Yeah, sure, that counts as training.”

“She was a tower certified teacher before she bonded and moved away from her tower,” he says, swallowing hard. “And the reason I don’t seem powerful is because I’m projecting that I’m not a Guide at all.”

Tyler shrugs, but there’s an intrigue glittering in xer eyes, as though xe want’s to believe what he’s saying. “Prove it,” xe says, and there’s a sort of hunger there, so that Josh is pretty sure he knows the right response to that.

“Make me,” Josh replies, and he sees the light in Tyler’s eyes blaze brighter. This had been the only exercise he hadn’t been able to practice on his own, and therefor it’s the only exercise he hasn’t thought about since he was fourteen and stupid.

Now, it’s harder than it had ever been, back then. The room goes deathly silent, and at the very least he doesn’t have to solve any puzzles right now but he still can’t let himself sink entirely into his castle, he’s too aware of Maria and Imani and the others’ eyes on him. To make matters worse he doesn’t want to hurt Tyler, especially when there’s a very real chance they don’t trust him yet, and he’s at their mercy here, with the police outside gunning for him.

At first the presence is nothing more than a flutter against the edges of his shields, Tyler’s low-level Guide powers barely present. But then they begin pushing, all at once, and Josh realizes that Tyler is very much not low-level. Not fast enough, though; ten shields fall, all at once, and Josh gasps. He hadn’t realized he’d rebuilt them so brittle, last night, and he begins to throw his mind into reinforcing them, not bothering to replace the broken ones.

Xe keeps fighting deeper, awareness abrasive against Josh’s, full of antiseptic and metallic scents. It’s unusual, different from the natural things most people’s minds feel like, and he decides firmly that he hates it around the time when Tyler breaks an eleventh shield. Sweat is pouring from xer forehead, xer teeth are gritted, but xe’s _doing it,_ and that’s enough to make Josh instinctively want to retaliate.

Fighting back isn’t an option, though, and so he simply clenches his fists in his lap and tries harder. The twelfth shield flexes, warps under Tyler’s assault, but holds. Scalpels slice at layer after layer of it, but it knits together before they can come back down. Then suddenly the slick slide of metal through his mind dives deeper, _stabs_ and pulls out so quickly that he gasps in meatspace, and Tyler’s sliding through the otherwise intact wall to face his next shield.

But despite xer progress now _Tyler’s_ the one gasping. “How many of these things do you fucking have?” Tyler says, or maybe it’s a thought, because no one else is responding to the words, and yeah, Tyler’s mouth didn’t move, did it?

“A lot,” Josh says shortly, sass leaking through even his clenched jaw. Tyler barks a laugh, and the assault retreats. Josh relaxes in increments while Tyler tries unsuccessfully to look like they weren’t just panting with exertion. _Did I do that?_

“How many is a lot?” Tyler asks, sitting at the head of the table while Imani hovers, worried, shooting Josh wary glances.

“Now, one hundred and eighty eight,” Josh takes a deep breath, slowly replacing the shields Tyler had smashed through. Every face at the table is wide-eyed.

“Bullshit,” mutters the man in the wheelchair, voice surprisingly young-sounding. “No one goes that high, not even the tower’s elite enforcers.”

Before Josh can argue with him, though, Tyler’s speaking wearily. “He does.” The man’s gaze snaps to Tyler, eyes lighter than Josh’s, almost honey gold instead of moss on bark.

“Okay, clearly we need to reassess.” Tyler presses xer hands to the table and stands, feet steady despite the way xer breathing still staggers. “And you need to bathe, Jesus Christ you’re gross. There’s clothing and bathing supplies in the bathroom on the basement floor, Imani will let you back down. We reconvene in an hour.”

Without arguing the people at the table begin to scatter, Imani muttering to Tyler for a moment before gesturing to Josh and walking out, now chewing on her index fingernail. Josh knows he gets to his feet to follow, can see the way his perspective changes, but he can’t register the change in pressure against the soles of his feet, his knees as they bend.

The elevator ride down feels surreal, and when Imani takes his hand as it slows to a stop and presses something small into it he stares uncomprehendingly at it for a moment before realizing it’s a key. “With this you can undo his handcuffs,” she says, quiet like that will stop Ethan from hearing her.

Before he responds the doors shut behind him, and he’s left standing there, alone in the hallway for a moment before he walks forward, testing doors (skipping the second on the left). He finds it further down, a small bathroom with a shower, toilet and sink. Two sets of clothing lie on the floor, two t-shirts and two pairs of jeans and two sets of boxers in radically different sizes. Wondering vaguely who went out and got them, he shrugs out of his layers, carelessly dropping them to the tiled floor.

Stepping into the shower and turning it on, Josh gazes blankly at the cracked tile wall. His breathing becomes shorter, and shorter, and then he finds himself on his knees, gasping at memories.

He’s betrayed his mother’s secret. He’s this close to being caught by the tower, the one thing she’d never wanted for him.

Last night he-

Biting his tongue, he tries to stop the thought, but it comes anyway, and with it come huge, consuming breaths, in and in and in, water trickling into his open mouth, but no matter how much he breathes he can’t seem to get enough air.

\------------

Ethan had prepared a nice, long speech when he’d heard the person upstairs (Tyler, he thinks the name was) dismiss everyone. As soon as he’d realized he really _couldn’t_ escape the cuffs he’d begun eavesdropping, and though he hadn’t caught anything particularly important (except for the strength of the Guide, but he’d already suspected that) he _had_ developed a plan to convince Josh to release him when he came back down.

And then Josh had walked straight past the room to the shower.

He wanted to roar with frustration. Until the Commander could send someone to get him, he was stuck. Josh had used his empathy to force Ethan to remove his tracking devices the night before, including the one that could also be used as a lock pick. He’s very literally trapped in this situation, and he can’t even express his frustration at it.

These terrorists have always been a pain in his Commander’s neck, but they’ve gone too far now. When he’s found the tower will finally crack down on them properly, Ethan’s sure, and they’ll realize that whatever bid they’ve planned isn’t worth it. Though, now that he’s listened to their conversation, he’s fairly certain that this was not the best thought out plan.

That only makes it worse, though. How had he been caught by an amateur, even if he was an incredibly powerful one? Ethan’s incredibly powerful too, and he’s well trained. A few years with your mom when you’re a child is very different than tower training, Ethan knows from experience. Yet still, apparently it took no more than a little empathy in the right places to make him bow like some pathetic child.

Water makes echoing noises as it bounces off of the hard surfaces of the bathroom, a strangely blank space letting him know where Josh’s soft body is absorbing the drops. He doesn’t want to be aware of the Guide ever again, but especially not _now,_ with his emotions running high and wild. The way the Guide had the ability to make his duties, beliefs, years of training simply fly away was more than disturbing. His being able to make Ethan _enjoy_ it was even more so.

A gasped breath reaches his ears, faint under the sound of the shower running, the dozens of people speaking in varying levels of hushed tones above them. It’s easy to dismiss until he hears it again. The gasps quicken, become hiccuping inhales, and Ethan’s seen this before, knows exactly what it sounds like when it’s coming from his own mouth, but he doesn’t want to feel sympathy over it. It was a sign of weakness, something he’d been wrong to show.

Why did it feel like the Guide wasn’t in the wrong, though? When he’d been speaking with the others, it had sounded like he wasn’t really... one of them. Was he a third party? It would explain why he’d originally pulled Ethan from the zone. But then why had he fought so hard to avoid being taken to the tower? It wasn’t as though it was a worse fate than being forced into the arms of terrorists.

Gasping crawls under the crack beneath the door and into his ears. He wants to help the Guide, wants not to want it. He remembers the taste of pepper on his tongue and the salt of sweat and an androgynous body looming over his in a way that’s not nearly threatening enough. He wants to forget. By the time the panicked breathing quiets and the water shuts off, Ethan’s nearly zoned himself, falling back on an old meditative technique his teachers had taught him.

The door opening quietly and bare feet carrying Josh back into the room force his eyes open again, though. He watches the Guide warily, the way his tangled curls have formed into a complete mess distracting him for only a moment. Josh stands still for a moment, looking a bit dazed and lost, and then he tosses a bundle of cloth into Ethan’s lap and kneels to undo the cuffs on his wrists.

“Bathe, you’re even more disgusting than I was,” he says. “Don’t bother trying to escape, you know as well as I do that you won’t be able to.” He stands back up without bothering to fully remove Ethan’s cuffs, sits on the bed and stares at the wall. Ethan wonders for a moment if he’s light-headed from the way he’d been breathing, but then he chastises himself and walks out.

Small as it is, the bathroom is serviceable, and he showers perfunctorily and dries, considering his options. It’s possible that he could fight every person in this building and win, he’s counted their beating hearts and heard their clumsy footsteps, but the machine parts of the security systems are impeccable. Without taking a hostage he won’t make it out of the basement, and the only hostage to take down here is Josh. They might not consider him important enough to worry about his safety, and anyway Ethan is meant to be retrieving Josh mostly unharmed.

Wondering if he will still be expected to complete his mission after either escaping or being rescued, Ethan walks back into the room to find Josh in almost the same position he’d been in. Only his head has moved, bowing to stare at his hands in his own lap. Ethan opens his mouth to say something, he’s not quite sure what even when the first syllable comes out, but Josh beats him to it. “I’m sorry,” he says, misery astringent in Ethan’s nose.

There’s a small, wooden chair to the side of the place where Ethan had slept, propped against the wall. He pushes it into facing the bed and then sits in it, hard wood comfortingly unforgiving against his back. He’s about to reply when Josh continues, self-deprecating smile on his face, “Not for bringing you in here. For- for last night.”

Of all the things Ethan had thought he might hear, regret at not following him to the tower or invading his mind in the first place and dragging himself into the whole mess or even not asking his mother to take him to the tower when he was young, he hadn’t thought he’d hear _that._ The Guide must have felt how perplexed Ethan was, for all that his face didn’t move, because he’s answering questions before Ethan can ask.

“It was wrong of me, to utilize our compatibility that way,” he explains. And here Ethan can see neither the grip that compelled his arms to stay still nor the man who’d told him to shut up in that biting tone. Like this, Josh looks smaller, closer to his true size. “It effected me too, of course, but as a Guide I was more in control of myself. I should have stopped it.”

Tilting his head slightly, as if it would help him see this from a different angle, Ethan said firmly, “That wasn’t compatibility. I thought it was, but it wasn’t.” It couldn’t have been, once he’d thought through it. It must be an empathy trick, something the Guide was able to pull off thanks to his raw power. If it had been compatibility, then why had Josh pulled back as often as he did? More in control or not, Guides would go into bonding heat same as Sentinels.

As Josh stared at him in shock, though, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. _How sure are you? You’ve never seen a compatible Guide before. Were your instincts really wrong when you first met?_ Shame spreads like a black stain through his chest. _Be honest. You just wish it was empathy, because you don’t want to think of yourself as-_

Cutting himself off with a mental growl, his neck muscles twitching in a motion no one but his Commander should be able to see but which still makes Josh’s eyes twitch downwards to watch it somehow, Ethan brings himself back to the present. The hazel eyes watching him, dark and muddy in the dimly lit room, make him feel as though Josh might be a mind reader instead of an empath. “You don’t believe that,” Josh says, reinforcing the feeling.

Ethan shrugs, his instincts screaming to break eye contact and his training refusing to let him. “Either way, it was only a tactic to subdue me. I don’t understand why you’re apologizing.” Clouds seem to pass over Josh’s face at his words, something like the horror Ethan had seen the moment before he’d fallen asleep (he can’t dwell on that memory, though, feeling so soft and warm and _safe_ when he patently wasn’t).

“No, that’s- wow, fuck no,” Josh disagrees so vehemently that Ethan can’t stop his eyebrows from arching upwards in surprise. “No, it wasn’t a tactic, and even if it was it would still be, just, horrible,” Josh swallows hard, something venomous in his eyes. “Would you have _subdued_ me like that, if you could?”

The more Josh talks, the less Ethan seems to understand what he’s saying. “No, but I’m not a Guide,” he says. He’s tempted to explain other things, war tactics and how tower training included compatibility imitation for Guides, and if Josh’s felt more genuine than anything he’d felt before it was only because Josh is more powerful, but already Josh is rubbing his palm over his face as though he’s still waking up.

Oddly enough, Ethan can smell _fear_ rolling off of Josh, can hear it in the way that his heartbeat picks up. It doesn’t seem to be directed at him, though, so Ethan pushes forward, forcing the words out of his mouth even though he’s feeling less sure of them by the minute. “You said you weren’t planning to do it again, regardless,” Josh nods, confirming.

Anything that Josh might have said in reply is cut off when a voice crackles into the room via a speaker Ethan had noticed lay in the corner but had dismissed as being irrelevant when nothing had come out of it the entire time Josh had been gone. Now he hears the Guide who had challenged Josh, hard amusement in their (no, it was xer, though the pronoun makes him want to grimace) voice as xe speaks. “Lock him up again, will ya?” Xe says, and they both know who xe means.

“Why?” Josh responds, and Ethan watches him carefully.

“I’m not gonna send the elevator down until he’s restrained,” Tyler explains, cloyingly cheerful, “don’t bother arguing, just do it.”

Looking bizarrely put-upon, Josh stands and beckons to Ethan, walking towards the nest of blankets that had formed when he’d fought his way out of the bundle someone had wrapped around him the night before. The expectation of obedience grates on him, but he can’t see any other options he has at the moment. So he goes, allows wrists that had only just begun to feel less sore to be clipped into metal again.

From the hall a distant _ding_ informs him that the elevator has arrived, but Josh doesn’t seem to hear it. He still stands immediately after Ethan’s secured, and begins walking away, not glancing behind him despite the way he must feel Ethan’s gaze glued to his back. “We’re not done discussing this,” he says, so quietly that a normal human wouldn’t hear. But Ethan does, and so he doesn’t look away even long after the door closes and Josh disappears from view.


	8. Decide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning!! Ethan got like, one of the worst sex educations ever, for serious. Take breaks reading this chapter, if necessary! Also please don’t kill me for the ending.

Josh rubs his index fingers against his temples, up and down, slow and firm and doing nothing to ground him. The talk with Tyler alone would have been exhausting, but then there had been others, introductions and rules and godsdamn _negotiations._ He’s not cut out for this, isn’t even certain how he got here, when he thinks back on it.

There had been so many opportunities for him to get out, before now. He could have chosen not to chase after the strange pull he felt towards Ashton and Maria. He could have chosen not to meet Maria at the parlor. He could have left Ethan dazed and alone in the alley. He could have even kept him in that motel, as wrong as it would have been. He should have done those things, truth be told.

So why didn’t he? His head pounds, not the empathy-induced headache he’d felt coming on earlier, but a simple, mundane pain. A trickle of coffee drips into the pot, hot and far too slow for his tastes. He hasn’t eaten in what feels like forever, and when he thinks about it, neither has Ethan. The fact that they’re getting a late lunch break now feels less like a _break_ and more like a necessity; if he had to keep talking to that lot for another hour he’d have been pulling his hair out, and Ethan must be close to perishing from boredom down there.

 

Why didn’t he? The question follows him as he pours nearly pitch liquid into a mug, _World’s Best Boss_ in big black letters on the side making him smirk at the irony. Why didn’t he? He loads up a tray with food, two cheap burgers someone had gotten while Tyler had tried to convince him that he really only had one option left. Fries and ketchup. A bottle of water. Black coffee.

Why didn’t he?

It’s somewhat awkward having to carry the food from the lounge on the second floor to the elevator, but Tyler was adamant that if Ethan wasn’t going to be brought up for interrogation then he wouldn’t be brought up at all. Xe had thought it was rather amusing that Ethan thought he was faking the compatibility, but xe’s also told him not to tell Ethan he was wrong again. The calculation of it was awful, another reminder that he wasn’t the only one who’d been lying all these years. He hadn’t been particularly close to Tyler, and he was sure that if he had been paying attention he would have noticed what was off, but it still stung.

Balancing the tray on one hand, he pushes in the key Tyler’s given him, turning it and then pushing the button that will take him to the basement. He pockets the key, but keeps the tray in one hand. It’s more familiar that way, less like a child in a cafeteria and more like a waiter in a diner. The thought almost makes his lips twitch upwards, but then he remembers Tyler and they drop again. At least xe’s lent him a charger for his phone, so that as soon as he’s back in the room (he refuses to think of it as a cell) he can plug it in and contact Ruth. He’s certain she’s worried about him, even if she understands his missing work.

As soon as the doors open he’s out in the hallway, surprised to find he’s relieved to retreat into Ethan’s company. When the Sentinel isn’t frothing-at-the-mouth angry or hunting him, he’s surprisingly reticent. It’s not Josh’s usual preference for company, but after upstairs he shudders to think of having to listen to chattering voices anymore.

He pushes the door open, glances around and remembers that there aren’t any tables in here, then sets the tray down on the chair. Ethan’s watching him again, blue gaze unwavering, but he doesn’t say anything. “How much did you hear?” Josh asks by way of greeting, kneeling beside Ethan and taking the offered wrist, using the key in his other pocket to unlock it.

“All of it,” Ethan rumbles, voice rusty from disuse and what Josh would bet is a dry throat. He hands Ethan the water bottle before he undoes the other cuff; it makes sense why Ethan is being so cooperative, if he knows exactly how much Josh has stuck his neck out for him.

“So,” Josh walks to the corner of the room, plugs his phone in, then goes back near Ethan. He sits down, grabbing a burger from the nearby tray and unwrapping it. “What do you think?” He takes as large a bite as he can, chewing thoroughly before he swallows. Grease and salt mingle on his tongue, empty calories filling him slowly.

Ethan’s eyebrows are rising again, darker than his gold hair. It dried oddly, and now long strands are falling into his face, obscuring it slightly. Josh resists the urge to push it back while Ethan takes another swig of his water, delaying his answer. “I think I’m a prisoner,” Ethan says, the word the same as it was in Tyler’s mouth; stark, matter-of-fact, so emotionless as to mean something entirely different from what he’s saying.

He’s almost longing for that indignant haughtiness from when they first woke up, now. It’s still there in some of Ethan’s mannerisms, the way he’s pointing out their moral disconnects as if Josh is an idiot for not understanding that _of course_ Ethan’s a prisoner, of course he’d be sexually assaulted in this situation. But it’s not as strong now, and despite how much Josh appreciates the quiet a piece of him wishes that Ethan would... he’s not sure. Fight back, maybe. Prove that things aren’t as truly broken in him as Josh is beginning to sense they might be.

Grabbing the fries and munching down on them as well, Josh considers the meager options he had in front of him. Tyler had mentioned that there was a possibility that BETA would help relocate him, hide him, if he was truly adverse to working with them. After all, forcing people into an accord with them would only lead to eventual betrayal, so they weren’t in the habit of doing that to potential recruits. Though Tyler had mentioned that xe’s willing to make an exception for him.

They eat in silence for a while, Josh trying to find the words for what he wants to say and failing, so that in the end it’s Ethan who speaks first. “Why are you helping me?” Josh huffs a breath through his nose, frustrated. Ah well, fuck it, it’s not like Tyler expected him to keep this particular promise anyway.

“It’s not your fault the tower’s using you,” he says, sipping coffee that’s gone somewhat lukewarm. “And I did manipulate you with our compatibility. I owe you.”

Nose wrinkling, Ethan peers at Josh as though if he just stares harder he’ll be able to send his eyesight inside Josh’s mind, see how it works. “Is it guilt?” He asks, shaping the word as if he’s not used to saying it. Incredulity doesn’t show on his face but it leaks from his pores, his emotions so on the surface but not being displayed in that odd way he had of expressing himself.

“Kinda,” Josh concedes, crumpling the now empty hamburger’s wrapper and stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning back on one hand. “Mostly things are fucked up enough already, and they don’t like me any more than you do.” He shrugs with one shoulder, looking at the ground between his feet.

Silence falls again, weighing heavily on Josh’s shoulders. He’s going to have to have this conversation, though, and he’d already started it once; he can do it again. “Does what I did, with the, or, our compatibility, really not bother you?”

There’s that head tilt again, like a confused puppy. Or a hawk looking at prey. “It was reasonable,” he says, as if that answers the question.

“No, it wasn’t,” Josh says, as firmly as he can when really what he wants to do is get up and leave. “Do you know _anything_ about consent?”

“Of course!” Ethan says, affront passing over Josh’s shields in a smooth slide. “But what does that have to do with this? Even if we are,” he pauses, and Josh thinks he might not finish the sentence for a second, but then he begins again. “Even if we are compatible, this isn’t a _relationship._ You were trying to capture me, and I was trying to capture you. It was an effective tactic, that’s all.”

Josh feels his stomach turn at the things Ethan’s saying. It’s like something out of a conspiracy theory, the worst kind that accuse towers of things even he hadn’t thought they’d really stoop to. Yet here he is, in a building BETA is apparently financing, having chased a phantom Guide’s trail via an equally absurd conspiracy theory. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, and Ethan’s eyelids twitch minutely, surprise like a sudden, sour burst on Josh’s tongue.

“Consent matters outside of relationships,” he says, voice surprisingly rough. He’s going to continue, to explain exactly how disturbing the things Ethan’s saying are, but Ethan cuts him off.

“Of course it does,” and there’s the tone again, as though Josh is stupid for pointing out the obvious. “But we are enemies. Why would you take such care with an enemy?”

“Care?” Josh can’t listen to this, he _can’t,_ not just because it’s repugnant but also because a piece of this is _his fault._ “It’s not care, it’s basic fucking decency. What the hell do they teach you in that tower, anyway? That rape is all fine and dandy so long as it’s got some kinda fucking purpose?”

Bristling visibly for the first time since this morning, Ethan stands, takes a few steps towards the door, the sharply redirects himself to sit on the bed. Realizing that his coffee has officially gone so cold as to be undrinkable, Josh puts it down beside his hip. “The tower system is one which has existed in some permutation for _thousands of years,_ ” Ethan says, as low and threatening as he can- and given his voice, that’s pretty low. “I’m sure the historians, anthropologists, scholars, and other experts who have studied and structured it will tell you the same thing I do. It is effective, efficient-”

“It condones rape!” Josh’s voice breaks, the reality of the situation finally dawning on him fully. For all that he’d hated the towers, that they were going this far was something not even Tyler had claimed. Then again, they’d only had half a day to talk; maybe it would have come up, eventually.

“Not officially,” Ethan says, and when Josh opens his mouth to say, _See, because they know it’s disgusting,_ Ethan cuts him off again. Unease flits through him at the action, and it occurs to Josh that Ethan isn’t used to having conversations like this. “It’s because, during a war, morals must be pushed aside in order to achieve the ultimate goal. I thought you understood that.”

As bitter as the coffee had been, this is worse. “Understood what? We’re not at fucking war, and even then there are war crimes, there’s shit you just _don’t do to people._ ” This is wrong, he started talking to apologize, not to shout at a victim, but the more Ethan talks the more terrified he feels. And if Ethan honestly believes these things, who’s to say that the tower hasn’t utilized him to rape someone before?

“Says the terrorist,” Ethan counters, and Josh can’t stop himself; he laughs, loud and mildly hysterical. Gods, but he wishes they’d had Irish cream upstairs. He’d looked, but he hadn’t found any.

“You’ve been listening in on conversations all godsdamned day, and you still think I’m with them? Really?”

“Well,” Ethan stares at the wall, and Josh stares at his feet. It’s amazing how little they’re acknowledging each other, considering the conversation. “No, but you will be. You haven’t been left much of a choice.”

Reluctant as he is to make it official, it’s true; even if he were to convince Tyler to let him leave, he can’t take Ethan with him, and as horrible as his arguments are Josh can’t bring himself to abandon him like that. “And who’s fucking fault is that, exactly?”

Shifting his weight on the bed, a bizarre mixture of trepidation and defensiveness swirling from his direction, Ethan clears his throat. “If you must blame someone, blame yourself for not turning yourself into the tower, as was your duty. Better yet, blame your parents for not doing so, considering that I’m certain you went online before fourteen, considering your strength and our compatibility-”

Ethan stops speaking, and it takes Josh a full thirty seconds to realize that it’s because he’s got his hand wrapped around Ethan’s throat, artist’s fingers looking ridiculously frail against the muscles present even there. He’s not certain if that would have even been enough to shut Ethan up on its own, but he’s also pouring rage into the connection, funneling every inch of the impotent anger he hadn’t been aware was building in him until this moment.

“I don’t know how you know that,” he says, monotone like the numbness has returned (it hasn’t, but he’s starting to miss it). “And I don’t care. Never speak about my parents like that again.”

Releasing Ethan’s throat, Josh walks from the room. He doesn’t start running, less because he doesn’t feel the urge and more because there’s nowhere for him to run in this fucking building, he’s more trapped than Ethan is. So much for this being a break.

Halfway to where he can feel Tyler’s flickering presence it starts to move to meet him, flashing red pulses. He runs into xem on the first floor, nearly mows xem over. “Where do you keep the fucking drinks,” he says, interrupting whatever xe’d been about to say.

After giving him a considering look for a moment xe nods, distaste showing on xer face. “You’re fucking lucky we can lock the basement doors from up here,” xe says, and then relays the directions. Josh’s off before xe can even add one parting, “be more fucking cautious.”

Third floor, second corridor on the left, first door after the turn. It’s some kind of storage room, but he can see the bottles as soon as the light from the hallway floods in through the open door. He grabs one from the open crate, looks critically at the label (it’s cheap beer, who cares) and pulls the bottle cap off in a smooth flick of the wrist. Tossing it back, gulping as if he’s dying of thirst, it occurs to Josh that if he gets drunk he’s guaranteed to be hungover, considering he’s had nothing but coffee to drink all day. It also occurs to him that he doesn’t care.

Two beers later Imani strolls in. Josh groans, nowhere near drunk, not at all ready for conversation yet. But she only sits beside him, her unassuming presence bracing instead of abrasive after a couple minutes. He knocks back another swallow, and then he realizes something.

“Did you know Tyler uses you as like a template or some shit for xer innocent act?” He asks, looking at her from the corner of his eye. He’s not sure why he doesn’t just keep his mouth shut about it, but maybe the familiarity in Imani’s mannerisms is soothing enough that it’s lulled him already. Even if the reason he’s familiar with them is a lie.

“Yeah,” she admits, bringing her index finger to her mouth and chewing on the nail absentmindedly. “Xe told me already. Apparently I’m the sort of person people tend to trust?” She sounds dubious, though, and Josh laughs under his breath.

Getting out a fourth beer, his third already drained, Josh offers the bottle to her. “Oh, I don’t drink,” she says blithely, and sends him into another fit of giggles. He’s not even tipsy enough to be justifying that noise, but he can pretend to be.

“You’re like, barely real,” he says. The hops in the beer is disgusting, not his choice of drink at all, but he can ignore it for the way it warms his body from the inside out. “How did I fall for Tyler’s shit for so long, seriously.”

“Xe says your shields are strong enough that they’re going both ways,” she says, hesitant as though she’s not entirely sure he wants to hear it, but still talking. Still providing the explanation as if she owes it to him, or something. “You’re so well hidden no one will know you’re a Guide unless you basically tell them, but you’re also not picking up nearly as much emotion as you should be.”

“Probably,” Josh agrees. Now he’s starting to feel the beer for real, but small as he is he’s used to drinking a lot more than this, so he takes another swig. “I’m joining you guys,” he says.

Imani looks at him sharply, dropping her hand to her side. “But…” confusion rolls off of her in waves, emotions so close to the surface that even his stunted senses pick them up. “You don’t believe in our cause.”

“I don’t believe in your methods,” he corrects, “the towers need to go, though.” Imani nods, searches his expression for something she doesn’t seem to see.

“Thank you,” she says, and the fact that she’s so genuine isn’t comforting so much as it’s a bitter reminder of what this entire clusterfuck has made him lose.

He keeps drinking, pocketing each bottle cap as he opens a new one. He makes it halfway through his fifth beer before Imani speaks again. “What’s it like, feeling other people’s emotions?”

Snorting derisively, nearly bringing beer up his nose thanks to the remarkably bad decision of leaving it against his open lips as he does, replies. “What, you can’t use google to find out?” His eyes and nose are smarting now, but it’s hard to care when the rest of his body feels like it’s buzzing pleasantly.

“They’re always so vague,” she says, slight whine making Josh snort again. “And every time they add a million disclaimers that it’s different for every Guide, so. I’m curious.”

As Josh swallows down more bitter drink he shrugs, the movement gone liquid with alcohol. “Dunno, guess it’s muffled most of the time,” he says, words not yet slurring, but he’s damned determined to get them there. “It’s kinda like, you know how sometimes you feel something? Physically? Like, getting a stomach ache from anxiety and shit. I guess I get echoes of that, along with the usual synesthetic bullshit.”

Nodding despite the confusion Josh can feel welling in her, Imani smiles. “Some people are easier to read than others,” Josh continues, “You’re really fuckin’ easy.”

Surprisingly, she smiles wider at that, teeth very white in her dark face. “Am I?” There’s _pride_ in the mix of her emotions now, and Josh thinks she might be the odd sort of person who enjoys being honest. It’s a dangerous trait for a terrorist. Some piece of him admires it, though, so he doesn’t contradict her. Just keeps drinking, her presence beside him providing the exact break he’d thought Ethan would provide, if a little too late now.

\------------

Almost as soon as Josh is out the door the mechanism inside it buzzes, sliding the lock home with a tiny, metallic _clink_. Ethan curses himself for having been unable to move in time, but that anger coursing through him, something even stronger than he’d been trained to resist, nothing like his own anger but feeling so disturbingly like it belongs inside him that he’d barely been able to fight it before it was gone, leaving him reeling.

Without Josh in the room, it feels very, very quiet again. Ethan can still hear the rest of the building, of course, can still tell which rooms he’s not meant to be able to listen through, even, but it’s not enough. He wonders if Josh is going to be gone until it’s time to sleep tonight, or if someone is going to make him come down to lock Ethan up again. He hates himself for hoping for the later.

At least now that he’s able to move a bit, able to go through the exercises he’d gone through in that hotel room, what feels like forever ago now. He wonders what Brian and Benedict are doing, if either of them have been able to track him yet. He’s certain they’ve already found the motel that he and Josh had been at, but that they haven’t tracked him here yet worries him. Scent trails fade fast, and if Brian hasn’t found any camera footage pointing here then there’s no camera footage, end of story. He might be an annoying worrywart, but he’s effective.

In the middle of his push-ups, Josh’s phone goes off. Ethan freezes, turns to stare in shock at it’s tiny, cracked screen lit up. He’d forgotten about it. It’s probably locked, so this will be his only time to access it. It rings again and he jumps for it, slides the “accept” bar across the bottom without even looking at the caller ID, which is sloppy, but he doesn’t have time to think it through.

“Hello?” A high, feminine voice asks. “Josh? Where the hell have you been, I’ve been worried sick, holy fuck.”

“Josh is busy,” Ethan says, his heart pounding. He isn’t sure where he is, except that it’s a relatively poor part of town and that there’s a park nearby. He can’t simply state the location and trust that Brian’s voice recognition software will pick it up and relay it back to him. Which means he has to stay on the line as long as possible, to give them the best chance of tracing it.

“Oh my gods,” she says, and starts _giggling._ Ethan’s so tense he can’t even find the irony in that. “He’s still with you? What happened, did you wake up and fuck him into the mattress immediately?”

“Uh,” Ethan says eloquently, prompting another round of chortling from the girl on the other end of the line.

“I’m Ruth, by the way,” she says, and then waits politely.

“Ethan Rey,” he says, over-enunciating for Brian’s program’s sake.

“Ooooookay,” she draws out the syllable, apparently waiting for him to say more, but he’s never been very good at conversation, and before he can formulate smalltalk she’s continuing, “well, I’ll leave you two to it,” and hanging up.

“No!” He says, but it’s too late, the phone giving him no feedback at all. He pulls it back from his ear and glares at the cracked screen in frustration, contemplating his options. Ruth is unlikely to call again, while she thinks Josh is occupied. The fact that Brian hasn’t triangulated his location from the cellphone means either the cracked screen is indicative of some serious internal damage, or the building has jammers of some kind in it. A quick check confirms that there’s a password on the phone.

Plugging the phone back in and replacing it carefully where Josh had left it, though he doubts Josh will notice any changes regardless, Ethan hopes desperately that he gave them enough time to trace it. Now that it’s gone dark, however, he has nothing he can do. Again. It’s even worse than waiting for Brian to give the order to catch Josh, because he isn’t sure what his next order is going to be. Will he have to sit still until he’s rescued? Should he be trying to force the door open?

Confusion has been a companion in his mind more and more often, since he’d captured Ashton. It had been a successful mission, damn it, so why had it resulted in so much turmoil? He had made mistakes, sure, but he frequently made mistakes; for all that he was better than the average recruit, he was far from infallible. So why is it now that he finds himself locked in a room, relying on a Guide who barely seems able to stand his presence for company? Why is it now that he is forced to listen to terrorist propaganda and he can’t even argue back without risking being alone again?

To his surprise, Ethan finds himself wishing for a fight. He’s almost tempted to force one, to make a racket until someone comes down to see him and he can _attack._ He hasn’t felt the urge in years, it’s base and pathetic and a sign of his own impotence, but now that he’s noticed it he can’t stop thinking about it. He wants a fight. He can’t, though, so that’s all he can do; think.

\------------

By the time Imani insists that Josh stop drinking beer and start drinking water instead, he is well and truly smashed. “Y’know,” he says, smiling over his half-full cup at her, “I haven’t got this drunk in like. In f’rever. Las’ time.” He frowns, trying to remember, and then brightens again, “Las’ time I was at a house party and. Ruth was there, y’don’t know her but she’s great, I tried to take off my shirt and I got all fuckin’ turned around, y’know, and I thought I’d have to cut it off, but Ruth helped.”

Amused light glitters in Imani’s eyes, but it’s friendly rather than mocking. “Did she?”

“ _Fuck yeah,_ ” Josh says, fervent enough that Imani covers her mouth with her hand, as if it’ll hide her smile. “Y’know she’s jus’ the best, like. Seriously. ‘M glad she finally stopped worrying, gods, fuckin’ damn.”

Puzzled, Imani chews on her pinky nail, talking around it in a way that would seem comical to Josh if he wasn’t so focused on drinking his water without spilling it. “She stopped worrying?” 

The question isn’t alarmed, and so Josh doesn’t feel alarmed when he searches for the answer and finds it to be true. “Yeah, guess she fin’lly figured out that I’m a big fuckin’ boy an’ I don’t need help.”

Doubt clouds Imani’s expression, and her hand creeps towards her pocket and the phone sticking out of it, but Josh waves it away. “Shush, ‘s fine, I’d know if Ruth’s not fine.”

“You’d know?” She sounds dubious, but doesn’t press it while Josh continues to work around the wide lip of the cup, which seems like a particularly dumb design decision to him at the moment.

“Yeah, cus’ I’ve like, known her _forever_ ,” as he speaks he sets the cup down on the counter, finally giving up on the lost cause. He has to piss already anyways, might as well not make it worse. “She’s the only one I’d let help take m’shirt off. The only one,” he adds for emphasis, glad to see the amusement return to the patina of emotions rolling off of Imani.

“Ev’rey one should have a friend like Ruth,” he continues, staring at the counter. There’s a brown stain on it, and he wonders how it got there, wonders why no one’s scrubbed it off yet. In a moment so cheesy and mildly disgusting that he’d retch to remember it if he’d said the words aloud, he thinks that Ruth’s eyes are a much prettier shade, and he really should tell her the whole truth.

But he’s thought about telling her the whole truth many times over the years, so those particular words don’t find his unwieldy tongue. Imani is saying something, he realizes, but it’s hard to focus on it, was the stain caused by beer or coffee or what, and why is there a buzzing in his head? It feels like static, white noise drowning out his environment, until he’s somewhere else entirely.

“Who are you?” Ruth’s furious tone is one he’s only heard a few times, when he’s been nearly blackout drunk and men decided that _then_ was the perfect time to make a move. And there’s the worry he’d only just stopped feeling, but it’s coming to him as though she’s right in the room now, instead of through the long tunnel of distance between them.

“CTSE Ma’am,” a voice says, and it’s anger and exhaustion all wrapped up in each other, he gets the emotions as if through a telegraph line, first through the filter of someone who can barely piece them apart and then to himself, he feels like maybe he’s amplifying them to compensate, he can’t tell, and the voice keeps talking, “If you comply you will not be harmed. Follow me.” He knows that voice, but without visuals he can’t place it.

“CTSE?” She says, and she’s somehow _angrier,_ it makes him wonder for a moment if he’s done something monumentally stupid, like set his apartment on fire, but then he realizes it’s not directed at him. “What the actual fuck, I- okay, okay, I’m coming, but what the hell is this about?”

“We think you know, ma’am,” another voice answers, this one so strung-out on tension that it rings clear through, a tuning fork on a high C. “We need to talk to you about your connection to Joshua Kendrick, with regards to a kidnapping and suspected terrorism charge.”

“Yeah, I saw on the news,” she says, and it’s scathing, but there’s a tremble deep down in her muscles that Josh can feel through his whole body. “Josh?” She says, but no, that’s a different voice, another woman, someone who never had to teach herself to speak high so that people wouldn’t question her, second-guess her. “Josh? Are you okay?”

No. Yes? He’s okay. Ruth’s not okay? He said he’d know, he can’t pull away far enough to comfort Imani because he needs to make good on what he’d said. He needs to know. He also needs to be quiet, though, can’t let Ruth know he’s eavesdropping, his ear to her door and her words whispered to a girlfriend he didn’t know she had, oops, I’m sorry I promise I won’t tell.

“Josh!” Imani shocks him from his haze, makes him sway on his feet when he meets her gaze.

“Ruth,” he says, and then his face contorts into something he doesn’t fully understand but it makes horror dawn on Imani’s face and that feels appropriate. “I need to go.”


	9. Refuge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a very special PoV change, keep an eye out for it /)u(\ Also, don’t worry, I’m not one for damsel in distress tropes!

They finally manage to stop him at the entrance of the building, the lobby open and easily viewed by the people on the road or the buildings across the street, but he doesn’t care because he can feel Ruth’s presence, as weak as it always is, moving further, towards the tower, and he knows what they’re willing to do to people who don’t comply now. He wants to go to her, is willing to mow down anyone necessary to do it, but Tyler’s in the way and won’t let him pass. He could, but he’d have to hurt xem to do it, and despite all of this he has the presence of mind to remember that that’s an extraordinarily bad idea.

All of xer concentration is being consumed by the battle in their minds, lashing winds versus sterile walls, and Imani is lying some feet back, clutching her head in her hands, so it’s Imani’s brother who steps forward- his name is Malik, Josh remembers, though he couldn’t care less at the moment. “Josh, you need to calm down,” he says, low and even despite the way his grey eyes, shockingly pale in his dark face, keep flashing to his sister behind Josh’s back.

“No, I don’t,” he grits out, talking another step forward, towards where Tyler, Malik and Maria stand, staring at him in varying levels of disbelief. “I need to get to _Ruth._ ”

“You need to calm down,” Malik repeats firmly, “you’re drunk.” Maria stands behind him, shock having taken her determined expression and turned it into something slack. Josh is fairly certain that if Malik were a Sentinel or Guide, then he’d be just as shocked. But he’s not, and he won’t shut up and let Josh _pass._

“Doesn’t matter,” Josh spits, trying to shove Malik aside. Bad plan; as thin as Malik is, he’s much, much taller than Josh, and he doesn’t budge. “I can get her out. She’s not even in the tower yet, I could do it.”

Malik looks at him critically, his voice still so infuriatingly rational when there is _nothing rational about leaving Ruth in danger, can’t he see that?_ “Is she in a car? Because, if so, how are you going to catch up to her? You can’t call a cab, not when you’re being broadcast on every television station as a criminal.”

She is, but Malik doesn’t need to know that. Josh is certain that if he were to exert his powers, he _could_ call a cab right now, and if there were ever a time for him to exert his powers he’s found it. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, pulling weakly away when Malik grabs his upper arms to keep him still. “She knows where this building is. If I can’t get to her, you’ll lose something too.”

Maria seems to shake herself from her daze, a grim look taking over her round, normally sweet face. “Then we’ll lose something,” she says. “There’s no way you’re going to get to her without being captured yourself, Josh, especially not right now.” He doesn’t want to hear her agreeing, he wants to believe that she understands because she’s lost Ashton already, she knows how it feels to have someone ripped away like this, but she’s lot listening either.

“No,” Josh says, and it’s a low growl, his voice slipping into a register he wasn’t even aware he was capable of. “Fuck you. I can-”

A pinch on the side of his neck makes him freeze, his eyes shifting without moving his neck. “Fuck you,” he breathes, seeing Imani’s sad eyes, her hand surprisingly steady on the syringe. He already feels sleepier, drugs mixing with booze and pulling him down fast. “You don’t... know...”

“I do,” she says, gentle, _pitying._ He wants to rip it off of her face, but he can’t move, finds he can’t even hold his own weight when his knees buckle and only Malik’s hands keep him from collapsing to the ground. His vision has begun to tunnel, so that all he can see is the bright red of Malik’s sweater.

And then he can’t even see that.

He comes to all at once, nothing like waking from sleep. The anger seems to have been drained out of him while he was unconscious, as if his mind had been turned to a sieve, so all he feels when he opens his eyes is an apprehension that isn’t his own. The soft surface he’s lying on bounces under him, forces him to sit up and focus on his surroundings.

The back of a van confronts him, a sort of bench seat sitting across from the identical one he’d been lying on the only adornment. Ethan’s on it, of course, because they wouldn’t trust him alone with anyone else. “Welcome back,” he rumbles as Josh sits up, rocking slightly with the ache that’s building in his head. “Don’t suppose you’d mind telling me what’s going on now, would you?”

Josh is extraordinarily grateful for the fact that the van has no windows, and therefor there’s no light to send bolts of pain through him. He feels hungover in more ways than one. “We’re moving,” he says around what feels like a mouthful of cotton. A quick check with the minds he can feel in cars around them confirms. “Location was gonna be compromised. Shit.” Moving to the wall that separates the back of the van from the front, he knocks, deliberate and loud. “Hey,” he raises his voice as much as he dares, “any chance we’re on our way to pick her up now?”

“Nope,” comes the muffled reply, a voice he recognizes as the other man who’d been in the meeting earlier today, Marco. Josh cusses under his breath and sits back down on the bench, hanging his head in his hands. Ethan’s seen him worse than this, and he really can’t be expected to look entirely put together right now anyway.

Pride flickers from Ethan, and Josh’s head snaps up so quickly that his neck, sore from needles or sitting awkwardly while he’d been unconscious or both, throbs in protest. “What,” he says, flat, and then guilt sits alongside the pride, the slightest edge of doubt that would have gratified Josh in nearly any other situation.

“What did you do.” It’s a question but it sounds like a statement, an accusation, and when all Ethan does is lift his chin and meet his eyes like he’s ready to defend himself Josh feels sick. “Tell me,” he says, and it’s an order now, something that doesn’t broker discussion. He could force Ethan to talk, if he wanted to, and he will if he doesn’t get his answer.

Ethan seems to sense this, because he says, slow and reluctant, “A friend of yours called when you left the room.” Josh’s eyes slide shut, and he breathes in deeply through his nose, trying to control the storm of emotions that’s looming on his horizon. “I told her my name, and attempted to stay on the line long enough for tower operatives to trace the call to my location. I suppose… I didn’t succeed.”

There’s nothing of the Sentinel Josh had seen in the motel in front of him now. There’s only Ethan, who Josh knows in a moment of terrible clarity had wanted to keep Ruth from harm, had seen her for the innocent she was, and had still decided to sacrifice her for the sake of what he’d decided was right. He can’t understand it, that level of devotion to something which _hurts_ him. He knows it’s hurt him, he’s seen Ethan’s back.

Then again, he hadn’t understood his mother either, for all that he’d been able to see into her mind. He wonders if he’d be able to understand Ethan’s commander any more than he understood his father. He doubts it.

The longer he goes without answering, the antsier Ethan seems to get, shifting his weight on the seat enough that Josh can see it in actuality, instead of simply sensing the movement from the discomfort it causes Ethan. “Are you nervous because you expect to be punished?” He asks, and he sounds _dead,_ beyond numb, so that he can only hope he’s out of the van and alone before the sensation breaks over him again and he’s left adrift in it.

Blinking at him, Ethan says mildly, “I’ve caused your friend to come to harms way.” He pauses, as though he expects Josh to respond, but when nothing is forthcoming he keeps talking, as though he needs to fill the silence, despite how quiet he’d been before. “Though nothing will happen to her so long as she complies.”

“She won’t,” Josh says, resigned. They’ll still get the answers they want from her, she’s such a weak guide that someone who’s tower trained will be through her shields in seconds, but she’ll be punished for noncompliance anyway. He can see it like a movie on the backs of his eyelids without even having to go back into her mind to do it. “I’m not gonna punish you,” he adds, though it makes Ethan tense more instead of less.

“…Why not?” Ethan is genuinely confused, which makes it worse. Josh considers explaining, considers brushing him off, but in the end Ethan is a Sentinel, and there’s no need to be truthful to him. Especially when Josh’s shields are all at full power, despite his hangover and the emotions threatening to consume him.

“It’s war.” Ethan’s mouth twitches at the answer, but Josh can’t figure out if it would have been a smile or a frown before it disappears. Even Ethan’s unusually easy to decipher emotions don’t help, familiarity wrapped up in a resignation to match his own. They don’t help him figure out whether Ethan truly understood, either, the mocking edge Josh doesn’t have the energy to add to his words, the insinuation that trying to survive a war isn’t a crime but this _isn’t a war._

The two of them descend into an easier silence, and it lasts until the van stops, back doors clanging open a minute later so loudly that Josh winces. “Welcome to safe house number two,” Marco says from beside Malik, sarcasm making it clear exactly how welcome Josh was, even after declaring that he’d throw his lot in with them. “Don’t screw this one up.”

\------------

The room looks so much like a stereotypical police interrogation setup that Ruth wants to laugh. Impersonal steel table, one chair on one side and three on the other, lamp in the middle like it exists for illumination and not just tired intimidation tactics. Except the people across from her with their suits and ties aren’t police, so they’ve been able to skip what she’s sure are a dozen procedural steps and go straight to the staring-her-down portion of the proceedings.

There’s three of them, a mousy man with a paunch who’s half-hunched over a tablet and a man with a hulking build and deep bruises under his brown eyes who both look familiar, for some reason, and a woman with lightly waved blond hair who has teeth that shine white as sugar when she smiles and is a Guide. The large man had introduced himself as Benedict, the mousy man as Brian, and the woman as Marybeth. Ruth had hated her instantly, and the woman hasn’t given her a reason to like her any more yet.

“Listen,” Benedict says, tired enough that even Ruth can feel it dragging her eyelids down. “We know you’re not in the terrorist organization already. We know your friend isn’t in the organization, as far as you know. But do you know where he is? You will be forced to tell us if you don’t do so willingly.”

Ruth has an idea where he is, but she’s not sure, so she focuses on that, the doubt, the memory of the voice on the phone that she’s certain belongs to the Sentinel they’re saying Josh kidnapped. Which he didn’t, she’s certain; the Sentinel was _huge,_ and whatever he might be Josh isn’t a rapist. “She’s not sure,” Marybeth answers for her, immaculately painted blue nails clicking on the table. “But she’s seen Ethan. He slept with Joshua.”

Benedict curses at that, his broad palm covering his face. “Of course he did.” There’s barely any anger when he says it, just an old, tired pain that Ruth is shocked to hear. Is Ethan a survivor? That only makes what they’ve insinuated about Josh worse, but she can’t open her mouth to defend him for fear of Marybeth taking advantage of the intent to speak. Whoever she is, she’s powerful.

“What the hell is it with you Guides,” he says, and Ruth’s eyebrows quirk, confused, wondering if he means herself and Marybeth until he continues, “is it because you can’t keep secrets from each other, that you’ll cover for him like this?”

Everything in the universe seems to still. “She didn’t know,” Ruth hears. There’s an intake of breath, but she isn’t sure from whom. It’s not her, at least; her chest has stopped moving.

“You’re wrong,” she says, though she can’t feel her mouth moving, can’t remember ordering her mouth to make the words. It’s true, though; they’re wrong. She remembers the car ride, the way Josh couldn’t lie to her with or without empathy, the final smile he’d tossed her rear-view mirror as she drove away. She becomes aware that she’s still breathing out, and then she hears the address falling from her lips. Brian taps it into his tablet.

Josh isn’t there anymore anyway, she’s _sure_ of it now. As sure as she is that he’s not a Guide, these people have somehow made a mistake. They didn’t contradict her when she told them they were wrong, at least, so there must be some possibility for a mistake, some way to convince them that she knows Josh, knows the way his hands feel hollow when he hasn’t eaten for a week, knows every single sound he makes when he’s not crying but he’s overwhelmed. But before she can say any more than what she’s already said (and it was too much, she knows, but doesn’t really register) they’re leading her away, the Guide’s hand on her arm keeping her distant, in a strange sort of stasis.

They put her in a room that looks like it belongs in a small but well-financed hotel, except for the fact that it has no windows or doorknobs. A cell. She sits on the bed.

Josh is not a Guide.

He is _not._

 _Woah there,_ a voice in her mind says, and at first she thinks it’s herself reminding that she needs to be calm, but then she realizes that it sounded nothing like her. Older, deeper, clipped in an upper-class smarter-than-thou way. _What’d they do to you, you poor thing?_

Gradually, much more gently than it would have on its own, the cell comes into focus around her. Ruth can register the pretty floral wallpaper, the softness of the comforter where it’s clenched in her fists, the fact that her fists were clenched at all. Trembling that had rocked her frame settles, and gratitude pours from her, wordless, until she hears that voice in her mind again, warm, _You’re welcome._

Trying to formulate an articulate response to send back, however, only gets her a wash of amusement. _You won’t be able to, poor girl, but if you come closer to the desk we’ll be able to communicate better._ Ruth stands slowly, meandering to the wooden desk which has no stationary or pens on it and therefor seems somewhat redundant. She sits on it instead of on it’s chair, both to be closer to the wall and in the only small rebellion she seems able to form at the moment. Suspicion wells up inside her, and she expends the effort to project it, tries not to pant with it.

 _I’m not on their side,_ comes the answer. It’s so full of disgust that Ruth would trust it even if it was possible to lie mind-to-mind, and she knows it’s not. _I’m here because I don’t like their **ideologies.** What about you?_

Frustration; Ruth doesn’t know how to explain, isn’t sure how relevant false charges brought up against a friend are anyway. Acknowledgement comes back, wordless, and it occurs to Ruth that maybe the other Guide is having almost as much trouble communicating as she is. There’s nothing but silence for a minute, two, and then she feels the words crawling under her skin again, not nearly as unpleasant as she would have thought they would be, _I’m Ashton. What’s your name?_

Ashton. Her fellow prisoner, she thinks with a bitter laugh. Try as she might to think her name, to project it, they still end up having to go through letter by letter, the concept itself apparently translating as _me_ when Ruth had tried to project it in its entirety to Ashton. When that’s done, Ashton sends approval towards her, and somehow it doesn’t feel condescending when she knows the honesty of it bone-deep.

There’s another long, wordless stretch after that. Ruth thinks it might be Ashton gathering their concentration (she isn’t sure how she knows to use they, but it feels right, maybe the same way calling her a girl had felt right to them). Do you think you could open your mind? They ask, at last, but it’s not a relief to hear. Only the resignation making the words ring hollow stops Ruth from immediately pouring out rejection.

It’s something that can only be done with the weakest guides, the small minority who might as well be normal for all that their powers help them. It’s also incredibly dangerous; you risk losing yourself entirely if you attempt it and end up too powerful to manage it, your mind leaking out to leave your body a vegetable and everyone nearby with a new liking for your favorite food, or a new fear of heights or spiders. It’s illegal to even attempt.

But Ashton hadn’t asked if Ruth would do it, only if she thought she could. Hesitation makes Ruth’s emotions waver like a plucked violin string, but she sends confirmation, unsure-but-tentative yes. She can’t help but wonder why Ashton would want her to do that, to take in the emotions of everyone from miles around her in the single moment of clarity it will afford her. How would that help them, trapped by metal and electricity as much as the will of those around them?

 _You know that myth,_ Ashton’s voice says in her mind, almost a whisper, barely there. _About Guides sharing a mind?_

Just like that it clicks, and Ruth isn’t sure whether to be delighted or horrified. It _could_ work, just maybe, with Ashton what feels like the lower end of middle power and Ruth as weak as she is. It could, but it would be stupid dangerous, even if it’s possible, which it might not be. Everything in what Ashton had said let ruth know they knew it already, though, and were letting her know that the offer was there.

For all that it’s a genius plan, Ruth doesn’t want to risk dying here. Not when she’ll be leaving soon, seeing Josh again once the tower realizes he’s not a Guide. Ashton is good company, and she feels guilty abandoning them, but...

 _I understand,_ Ashton says, and something in it let’s Ruth know that this isn’t the first time it’s happened. _But before you decide for certain, will you allow me to show you something?_

Ruth sees the guilt trip coming a mile away, it’s impossible not to when Ashton’s thinking at her like that, but she still allows it, sliding her eyes open to more easily accept whatever images Ashton gives her. She finds herself in a room very like the interrogation room she’d been in, except that now there are wires all over her, and she’s tied to the chair. An unfamiliar man with small, watery eyes sits across from her, a tablet pen in his hand tap-tap-tapping against the table. He asks a question she can’t hear, and it registers that she can’t feel anything in the room either, her nerve endings still very well aware that she’s sitting on a desk.

That doesn’t make it any less horrifying when she watches muscles twitch under what she _knows_ isn’t her skin but still feels like it must be, considering where it is relative to her body. Her spine arches, bringing ripped clothing into view, her arms and legs look as though she’s trying to rip her way through the restriants despite the blood she sees dripping from her wrists. _Electrocution?_ They won’t do that to her, she’s not important enough, and if Ashton is then they must be in charge of something shady, something that has hurt a lot of people worse than they’re being hurt now.

“They make sense,” she remembers. “They make sense” and “you think a cult could drag me in with a few nice words?” Recognition sparks between her and Ashton lightning-fast, so much so that she’s not sure which of them it came from. Ruth has always thought of the towers as a misunderstood institution, something which tries its hardest to be benign but is often put in difficult positions. Now, though, she’s starting to rethink that.

Determination crackles in the air around her, and relief from Ashton, and then a steel-strong thought that makes her smile grimly, _Tomorrow._

\------------

Maria is the one who leads him to his new room, blessedly separate from Ethan now that he’s officially joined BETA, even if apparently only he, Imani, Tyler, Ethan and Maria know. It also doesn’t escape his notice that none of them have told him where in the city they are, though that didn’t stop him from figuring it out; it wasn’t hard to pick up from the minds of the people in and around the building. A warehouse that sat in the midst of many other warehouse, ostensibly being used by a company Maria had significant dealings with.

“Here we are,” she says, and he notes with relief that it locks from the inside, rather than from the outside, and that it isn’t situated with the cuffs on the wall that his last room had held. With it’s plush, cream carpet and armchair in the corner, it feels more like a cleaner version of the motel room than a prison cell.

Smiling gratefully at her, Josh sits on the bed, and then methodically cracks his knuckles. It’s a bad habit, one Ruth had broken him of years ago, but, well... Ruth’s not here at the moment, and so there’s no one to stop him. Ruth sighs as though she can read his mind, and steps into the room, shutting the door and leaning back against it in a casual motion that doesn’t match her refined manner.

“I’m sorry,” she says, soft, and Josh knows she is. As soon as he’d seen her he’d known that she felt his pain almost as acutely as she had felt her own, and while it didn’t help with the loss, the fact that he had to see flares of anxiety from Ruth’s consciousness occasionally, the way his eyes are glued to the sky in his head but he can’t seem to bring himself to actually go to her, it had been comforting. Misery loves company, after all.

“Not your fault,” he says, shrugging, curling his toes in his shoes and wishing he could crack those too. He looks at Maria, considering, and then he says softly, “What’s being bonded like? If you don’t mind me asking.”

She seems to stop breathing for a second, but then she laughs breathlessly, helplessly. “You’re as bad as Imani,” she admonishes, and Josh wonders what Imani has asked _her._ What super senses were like? “Yeah, I can tell you though.”

He waits, patiently as he can, barely bouncing his leg. She doesn’t seem to notice as she gathers her thoughts, and when at last she begins it’s more thoughtful than sad. “I’d never seen someone’s mindscape, before Ashton. So that was, well, an experience. They’re so big, and Ashton’s was so detailed, it was... it was impressive.” She pauses for a moment, and then the sadness wells up in truth, raw and fresh still. “I already loved them, you know. We grew up near each other, and I was there when they went online. It’s different for most pairs, I know, but it felt almost like we were already bonded. The rest was just a formality.”

Try as he might to imagine that, letting someone into the very core of your being as a simple formality, it’s so alien to him. He finds himself envious, though, of that level of closeness; a piece of him imagines what it would have been like, if Ruth had been there from the beginning, if he’d been naive or stupid or trusting enough to tell her the truth of him. They would never have loved each other the way Maria and Ashton do, but it would have been something.

“Thank you,” he says eventually, the words harder to find than usual. _Maybe Ethan’s a bad influence on me,_ he thinks.

“Don’t mention it,” she replies, and something about it tells him that he really shouldn’t. “You know that Tyler’s still going to make you question him tomorrow, don’t you?”

Not expecting the question means that when he hears it his shoulders hunch inwards before he can stop them, as if to protect him from a blow. “I know,” he says, ignoring the aura of concern suddenly filling the room. “I’ll do it.”

Though there isn’t much indication of it physically, Josh can feel the way Maria has to drag her body away from him, away from her instinct to comfort him the way she’d had no one to comfort her. It’s been less than a week, Josh realizes suddenly, his stomach dropping somewhere far below him. Less than a week since this all started. “Good,” is all Maria says before she turns and opens the door, stepping into the hallway. “And goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Josh replies, listening to the click of the door and the receding taps of Maria’s heels on the hallway. He barely has the energy to toe off his shoes before he flops back into the bed; he even considers sleeping on top of the covers again, but something about that feels too much like defeat to him, so he crawls under them instead, rests his head on the foam pillow and tries not to think too hard.

Despite the pounding headache that’s lingering at the base of his skull, however, that’s easier said than done. This time last week he’d been complaining to an attractive older man about the group of rowdy, young sentinels who had wandered into the diner earlier in the day. It had been perfectly normal. He feels like a year must have passed, like it can’t have possibly been so little time, but when he goes back in his head and counts the numbers don’t add up.

Maybe it’s because he’s been keeping so busy, between panic attacks and chasing terrorists and tower enforcers and getting not nearly drunk enough but simultaneously far too drunk, but it feels like it’s only just now sinking in. And then there’s Ethan, thoughts of him as nearby as he himself physically is, boredom and worry and that lingering fear that he’d done the wrong thing broadcasted so clearly despite the walls between them.

Josh would wonder about why he can read Ethan so clearly even though his plethora of shields, but he knows. The more time he spends with the Sentinel, though, the less he can understand the compatibility that pulls at him even now. Ethan might be physically attractive, he might have some deliciously submissive instincts, but he’s also a zealot, someone who’s willing to sacrifice himself for his cause without a second thought, even knowing what his cause will do. No matter what Josh’s instincts are trying to say, that is _not_ an attractive character trait.

And he’s hurt Ruth, now, intentional or not. No matter that he’s been hurt himself, that he thinks of it as par for the course, that he feels guilt despite everything in his upbringing telling him he’d done the right thing. But Josh has never been one for _projects,_ he’s not going to fix Ethan any more than he’s been able to fix himself, and the thought of sleeping with Ethan again, knowing what he knows...

It shouldn’t be appealing. He should be disgusted, he should want to rip off his own skin more. Ethan isn’t a good person. Ethan has done nothing but antagonize him every time they’ve spoken. Ethan would look delicious bruised in a way that left him warm and wanting, instead of afraid and lost, the way he’s suddenly certain Ethan looked when he was flogged in punishment for whatever he’d done wrong. He can’t understand his own instincts, what the hell drives them to want something that the rest of him couldn’t want less.

He doesn’t think at all about the fact that he knows he could dig into Ethan if he wanted to, even at this very moment, and root around in the heart of him to find out exactly what it is that draws them together. He doesn’t think about it because it would be invasive, because it’s just another way he’s a freak for having the power he has, because no matter what Ethan has done no one deserves that.

It’s strangely lonely falling asleep without someone breathing nearby, though, and Josh finds himself missing last week even more keenly. Absently, he considers trying to call Ian, but then he realizes that he has no idea where his phone is. Fuck it, it had been broken already anyway. Eventually, the deep burgundy of the back of Josh’s eyelids darkens into blackness of sleep.

Any dreams that he might have had are far away by the time he opens his eyes again, and if some of his memories from the day before seem to have gone hazy along with them, well, that’s certainly not a negative, considering.


	10. Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS. I may have forgotten to post on friday!! Luckily, I don't think anyone noticed...? But hey, wanna see more content related to this story? [I have quite a few shippy aesthetic posts over yonder, why not check them out?](http://burningbrokenantlers.tumblr.com/tagged/weak-and-drunken-hearts)

Tyler insists on being there for the interrogation, Josh insists on xem not. Tyler points out that xe knows a lot more about the sort of information BETA needs. Josh points out that he knows a lot more about the sort of questions Ethan can even answer. They go back and forth for twenty minutes before Imani says that Maria should go in Tyler’s place, and despite the wicked glint in xer eyes, xe agrees. Josh won’t ever admit to the level of relief he feels, having Maria at his back when he walks into the room, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Unlike Josh’s new lodgings, Ethan’s room looks almost exactly the same as the last one they’d been in. The main difference is that he’s not chained up, now, and there’s a table in the room with three seats. Josh and Maria sit on one side of the table, and Ethan looks down his nose at the third chair for a moment before he settles into it, as though he had to remind them that he’s above this even if he can’t afford to fight back at the moment. Josh rolls his eyes at that, doesn’t even bother to hide it.

“Let’s begin,” Maria says, and her voice is surprisingly molten. Josh’s head snaps in her direction, but she’s staring Ethan down, her hand clutched around a pen, poised over a notepad, ready. “What’s your rank?”

Ethan’s lips turn up at the corners, just slightly. “You already know that,” he says. Before Josh or Maria can protest, he continues, “Let’s just get to the real questions, shouldn’t we?”

She only hesitates for a moment before she nods, surprising Josh. He hadn’t realized it before now, but they _had_ found out Ethan’s rank, hadn’t they? He supposed that the tower kept all that information backed electronically, so it had to be accessible to someone who knew about computers, but who had done it? Not many people were aware that BETA had captured Ethan, and Tyler had seemed insistent that it stayed that way. In a moment of frustration Josh considers dropping some of his auxiliary shields, but it’s really not worth it for something like this, he decides.

“How many entrances are there to the tower?” Maria asks next, and Josh frowns. What kind of question is _that?_

“Three,” Ethan answers, but Josh can feel the pride in it, knows he’s lying.

Wincing, Josh says, “You do know you can either tell the truth or have me force it out of you, right?”

Shock doesn’t so much rock through Ethan as flirt with the edges of his consciousness, none of it showing in his posture. “Yes,” he says, resigned, but determined as well. He’s remembering the times Josh’s tried to use empathy on him before, Josh knows, at the same time as he knows that this will be different. It’s more miserable knowledge than he’d thought it would be.

“Do it,” Maria orders, and Josh can’t protest to defend Ethan’s privacy; they all can feel that he’s not going to betray his people, even in this small way. As close as they are, it’s easy for Josh to reach into his mind, though he’s surprised when he feels the first shield. Sentinel’s rarely have shields, let alone strong ones, but Ethan’s is a monolith of sandstone, soft but thick and seemingly impossible to break.

Josh simply steps around it. The next layer is both less shocking and less strong, a mess of underbrush that looks like something one would find on a shoreside, but the razor grass is dried and brittle, almost black in places, as though it’s been burned. The heat beating around them feels like it could be from a fire, at least, but that’s of no concern to Josh. He brushes aside the grasses, feeling the touch of them against his palm threatening to cut, but not making good on the promise.

And just like that he knows the answer. “Six,” he says, easily. Ethan jerks, and Josh feels a moment of dark pleasure at that, the way he’d been so gentle that Ethan hadn’t felt him. On the one hand, if he has to be invasive, he’d rather not also be violent about it; on the other hand, how many Guides could manage that?

He doesn’t like thinking of himself as a Guide, though, because hard on the heels of that thought comes the word: freak. He pushes it away, and Maria taps the pen to the paper again, her eyebrows raising in surprise (but her eyes are still filled with banked fire, and it’s starting to make Josh nervous). “Where are they?”

Apparently Ethan has realized that Josh gathering information is different than Josh subduing him, because there’s nothing to fight back against, here, no way to shore himself against water-vapor when that’s all it is, no accompanying storm or battle. So he thinks hard about the three entrances everyone knows, underground parking garage, front, loading docks, but he can’t hide the shapes that the sifting sand of his consciousness begin to form. Floor plans, which Josh peers at carefully, until he can relay, “He’s counting the helipad, but there’s also an underground tunnel and concealed side entrance.”

Maria notes something quickly, using some kind of shorthand, and then looks at Josh expectantly. “We knew about the tunnel, but where’s the side entrance?” Ethan’s hands clench under the table; Josh can’t see it, but he can feel it in the tension that sings through Ethan’s mind, turning the air thick and muggy. Odd, because when he looks around he sees a desert that looks like it’s never known water.

Trying to memorize the sandy blueprint before Ethan can whisk it away, Josh says, “It’s uh, second floor? There’s a section of wall in one of the offices, concealing a stairway. You can access it from the outside but you need a key. Ethan had one, but...”

When he’d said “key” an image had flashed in Ethan’s mind; _a hand, prepubescent, clutched around the small metal thing until the teeth cut into his palm. The pain feels amplified, he’s forgotten to dial his sense of touch down again, but he doesn’t have time to fix it now. “Please, sir,” he says, a voice so high that Josh wouldn’t recognize it as Ethan’s if he couldn’t feel his throat as it moved, “I promise I won’t do it again.”_

_“Promise isn’t good enough.” The answering voice is uncompromising, and the face that looks down at him is stern, the arguing-will-only-make-the-punishment-worse face. “You were not given this key so that you could sneak out like a common hooligan,” a hand reaches down, large like Ethan wishes his hands were, sure and calloused and strong, and ruffles his hair. It’s getting long again, past his shoulders, he should cut it soon. “You’re too important to be left roaming around, you know that, don’t you?”_

_“Yes sir,” Ethan says, and there’s a sort of devotion there. He’s important because his Commander says so, he’s important and special, there’s no one else like him, and as long as he’s a good boy his Commander will make sure they don’t hurt him again-_

Josh can’t help that he gags at the tail end of the thought, his mind flinching backwards so far that he almost pulls from Ethan’s entirely, and only stops himself at the last second with the panicked thought that he might not get back in if he does. A second later that’s not his biggest worry, though, because Maria is on the table, her hands in fists, one striking towards Ethan, and Josh watches as the fist moves away from him quicker than his eyes can follow with something like terror.

Calmly, as though this is normal, Ethan tilts his head. Maria’s fist still grazes his cheek, but it doesn’t even leave a red mark, and then he’s launching himself backwards, his chair falling to the ground as he lands on his _hands_ and smoothly rolls back onto his feet. Maria’s already swinging again, this time with her fingers clawed so that if he goes for a minimalist dodge again her nails will catch him and rip his skin, and Josh is still so synced with Ethan that he can’t stop her in time, can only listen as she snarls “ _What did you do to him?_ ”

Ethan dodges again, this time dropping back down from where he’d only just risen and his leg shoots out to trip her but she’s already dancing backwards, half-crouched, still growling, and Josh has to repeat “I’m fine, I’m fine, I swear I’m fine, I pushed too hard, it’s my fault, _I’m fine,_ ” before her feet stop their pacing and she turns to stare at him, disbelieving, nostrils flaring.

“I could smell your fear,” she says, her pupils blown, and Josh is torn between being touched that she’s protective of him already and sighing in exasperation. Ethan’s eyes are wide, Josh realizes, and they flit between Josh and Maria without ever settling on either of them, as though he’s not sure who’s the bigger threat. _Aw, hell._

“Listen, it’s fine, I wasn’t scared for myself,” Josh says, wincing when that gets him a sharp look from both Sentinels. “Hey, let’s go out in the hallway and discuss this, yeah? No more arguing in front of the prisoner like fucking idiots?”

Maria straightens from her fighting stance slowly, Ethan’s shoulders relaxing as she does. He doesn’t speak while they walk from the room, but the whites of his eyes are still showing all the way around his irises. Josh’s instincts cry out for him to turn around and calm the unbonded Sentinel, instead of the bonded one beside him, but he stomps them down mercilessly; Ethan can take care of himself for ten godsdamn minutes.

Once they’re out of the room Maria finally looks something resembling normal again, though her hands still shake with fine tremors. “What the hell was that?” Josh says, trying to catch Maria’s gaze when she avoids his. “Seriously, I thought things were going well.”

“Who suggested that I be in the room?” Maria asks, and Josh frowns, raising his eyebrows.

“Imani?” He says, and Maria laughs humorlessly, then looks at him with eyes that are shockingly red with tears, and oh hell he can’t handle this.

“She’s not a Sentinel or a Guide. Tyler okayed it, right?” Josh nods, words seeming to have abandoned him, and she laughs again. “Xe had to know what would happen if you put me in the room with the Sentinel who took my Guide. Xe’s not stupid.”

_And I am,_ Josh finishes the thought. “Okay, yeah that. Nope, actually that is pretty fucking stupid, unless xer plan involves maiming out MVP.” Maria’s mouth actually falls open at that, but there’s a hesitant amusement in her eyes, so Josh counts it as a victory. “So, how about you go tell xem that I’m not gonna continue the interrogation with you _or_ xem in the room, and I go make sure Ethan’s not gonna zone. Sound good?”

It doesn’t, Josh can tell from the distaste that curls Maria’s lip slightly when he mentions Ethan but she still nods. “Don’t continue the interrogation without someone else in the room,” she warns.

“Duh,” he replies, watching her walk away. He waits until she’s around the corner and no longer visible to go back into the room, hyper-aware of her Sentinel hearing.

At some point over the course of the short conversation Ethan had sat back down, his head bowed so that all he can see is the table, though Josh is certain that he heard the whole thing. “Hey,” he says, sitting down on the table beside Ethan instead of across from him. When that garner’s no reaction annoyance sparks alongside worry, and he says, “you with me?”

“Yes,” Ethan says, and Josh doesn’t hear it so much as feel it vibrating through the air between them. He resists the urge to hook his fingers under Ethan’s jaw and tilt his head up, the motion too much like the memory he’d seen, Ethan’s upturned face towards someone older, almost a father figure.

“Why did you...” Ethan starts, but he can’t seem to find the end of the sentence. Josh waits patiently, feeling it build in the air around them, until Ethan continues in a rush, “I know what you saw, and while I admit that it wasn’t one of my prouder moments, why did that cause you to feel fear? You don’t know my Commander, and the memory itself did not include the punishment, so why...”

Though he continues to wait for a while after that, no more words are forthcoming, and so he leans back, away from Ethan. The question was genuine, Josh could tell even without empathy, and though it’s not surprising it aches. “How long have you been living in the tower?” Josh asks, and Ethan looks up sharply.

“Why do you want to know?” He says, and it’s a challenge as much as it is a question.

“It’ll help me answer,” Josh says, and prays that it’s enough to get Ethan to talk. He could get the answer anyway, they both know that now, but they also both know that he won’t unless he thinks it’ll get Ruth back safely sooner.

He considers for a long time, and Josh is struck all over again by how quiet Ethan is, how difficult words seem to be for him, but then he replies and it makes the breath stick in Josh’s lungs. “If I answer your question, you answer mine.”

“I can’t give up any secrets that aren’t, like, mine to give,” Josh points out, but it’s a hollow hope that it’ll be enough to deter Ethan.

Just like Josh had expected, Ethan nods. “I know,” he says, “and I wouldn’t expect you to give up organization secrets in exchange for personal information.” Every time he does this Josh is surprised, it’s honestly getting kind of repetitive, but before he can get halfway through berating himself for expecting different Ethan is speaking again. “I was taken to the tower on my eighth birthday.”

His mouth has gone drier than Ethan’s mind, dry like his body has suddenly forgotten how to make saliva. “How old were you when you went online?” He asks, and he doesn’t want to hear the answer but he needs it like he needs water or air.

“My turn,” Ethan replies, and Josh nearly slams his fist to the table in frustration. But he did promise, so he only breathes in through his teeth and nods, waits for Ethan to order his words properly. He doesn’t hear what he expects to hear, though. “What were your parents like?”

His defenses have fallen too low; when Ethan speaks it’s like a punch to the solar plexus, his breath gone out in a single moment, out of his lungs and out of the room entirely so he can’t get it back. But Ethan waits, seeming to expect the same silences from everyone else that Josh has learned to expect from him. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, subdued, because if it were any louder it might shake and he couldn’t stand that.

“Dad was a... well, a jackass. Sentinels who abuse their Guides are fucking rare for a reason.” Josh watches his own feet swinging back and forth, disappearing under the table only to reappear. It’s easier than looking at the curtain of gold hiding Ethan’s face. “I’ll never know how Mom ended up with him. She was like, I don’t know, a stereotypical Guide. Self-sacrificing and all that shit. I could stop Dad from beating her, but she never did it herself. I dunno why.”

As he nods slowly Ethan’s head lifts just enough that he can make eye contact with Josh, the both of them not turning entirely towards the other yet, only glancing as though that makes it less real. “When did you go online?” Josh asks again.

“We’re not sure,” Ethan says, and Josh holds his breath to keep it from being driven from him again. “But the tower specialists think it may have been when I was born. It’s possible that it was in infancy, as I was premature, and my sensory issues may have been from that at first. All we know for sure is that my powers were already fully developed at eight.”

The clinical way Ethan had relayed the information doesn’t lessen it’s impact. _Not alone. Not alone, not alone, not alone even if your only company is a tower pawn, not alone even if you only have this wreck of a Sentinel, not alone, **not alone.** It’s a song in Josh’s heart, so that even when Ethan asks his next question it doesn’t burn him like it should. “Why didn’t you give yourself up to the tower?”_

_“Like I said, Mom was like, the pinnacle of Guide morals or some shit,” Josh’s lips twist in a grimace that he hopes looks like a smile, “she never wanted me to use empathy to hurt people. If I’d been working for the tower, I would’ve hurt a lot more people.”_

_“You would’ve helped a lot more people, too,” Ethan says, but Josh shakes his head._

_“Nope, wrong answer. It’s my turn anyway, asshole.” He considers for a while, hazel eyes staring at Ethan’s blue ones, warm like a sunny sky right now, so different from how they’d been when he was acting prideful as hell. “Did you ever consider leaving the tower?”_

_“No.” It’s so final that Josh has to laugh. No hesitation at all; what the hell kinda person even is Ethan, that he could be so single-mindedly devoted? “Did you go to college?”_

_Blinking at the question, so out of left field and out of place and plain old odd, Josh stares at Ethan. There’s a hunger to him, like it’s something he’s always wanted to know about, and Josh almost laughs to realize that Ethan’s completely forgotten the point of the conversation, in favor of learning this meaningless thing. “For a semester. I didn’t do well,” Josh admits, and then he swallows hard, remembering Ruth still going to classes, fighting for an education that everything in the world seems determined to deny her._

_“Do you ever see your parents?” Josh asks, and it’s like a shutter being pulled, the conversation all at once drifting from the easy space they’d almost fallen into. His guts tie up in knots when he realizes it, and some deep piece of him says that it would be so simple, so wonderful to talk to Ethan, if only life hadn’t cast them in their roles._

_“No,” that same, short answer, no elaboration, but this time it’s less because none is necessary and more because Josh hasn’t earned it, he can tell. “Why did you feel afraid, when you saw my memory.”_

_Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, Josh tries not to let himself mourn something that didn’t even happen. It’s stupid, it’s petty, and this is still the boy who placed Ruth in danger (still the boy who’s love was given to someone who could protect him, but didn’t). “As long as you’re good, your commander will make sure they don’t hurt you,” he says, feeling the way it makes Ethan stiffen beside him. “Whatever that meant, it... there was a flavor to it. I dunno, seems pretty ass-backwards, but I don’t have the context to elaborate.”_

_Quiet descends again, like a beast that’s always stalking them, waiting for them to fall still before it wraps snake-like coils around them. “Why,” Josh says eventually, “don’t you see your parents?”_

_“I...” Ethan seems to wrestle with something, and then he says, “I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you, considering you already think the towers are devil incarnate,” Josh snorts, but Ethan keeps talking right on over him, ignoring what he clearly thinks is a stupid reaction (which is fair, because Josh thinks it was a stupid comment). “My father was killed for threatening to leak the information that I exist, and my mother took a bribe to stay silent about the affair.”_

\------------

Ethan can’t seem to figure out why Josh looks so horrified by the prospect. His own parents were dead, both of them, and as far as he can tell Josh’s mother had used him as a shield against her Sentinel for years. Parental death shouldn’t horrify him, nor should the way they can profit from their children. Then again, Josh doesn’t tend to have reasonable reactions to the tower or it’s activities. _Ass-backwards,_ he’d said, as though that explained anything.

Before he can ask his next question, though, a woman is walking into the room; Imani, Ethan remembers. This time he can’t smell any Guideine on her, thankfully, only a slight perfume that he’s certain belongs to someone else, and a nervousness that’s close enough to fear to permeate the air around her. “I’m going to replace Maria in assisting you,” she says, stiff, her hands twitching as if she wants to bring her already-shredded nails to her lips and bite.

In an infuriatingly gentle motion Josh hops down from the table, holding his hands out to Imani as if he’s soothing her, as if she’s already his friend despite the fact that they haven’t known each other very long. Ethan can’t help but glare as they settle into their chairs, side by side, two gazes on Ethan’s so now the choice to meet or not to meet them doesn’t feel like a choice at all; he has to because they’re enemies and they must know he’s not scared, he can’t because there are two of them and only one of him. He misses Benedict with a sharp pang, and, surprisingly, Brian as well.

Taking a breath that looks more like a shudder than a normal bodily function, Imani looks at the pad of paper Maria had abandoned. “Okay, um, where does the side entrance open to?”

Josh locks eyes with Ethan, but all he can muster is resigned defiance. His secrets will be pried from him, true, but they won’t fall from his mouth. Just like last time, he can’t feel it when Josh enters his mind, but then Josh’s voice is filling the air with words Ethan would never, ever say, “It’s near the loading dock, so that whoever exits from it can appear to onlookers to be coming from there, but it’s in a blind spot in the security system- huh, that’s convenient.”

Unlike Maria, Imani notes it all down with a steady hand, though her other has lifted so she can gnaw at her ring finger’s nail. “What kind of key is necessary? Are thumbprints necessary, or is there any tech to circumvent?”

The questions continue, building on top of each other, and each one makes Ethan fall deeper into stress, into lethargy, until he’s nearly zoned on the feeling of his shoulders hunching and his chin tucking into his chest, defensive. He can scent Josh’s fear mounting again, metallic on his tongue, ozone and pollution-laden rain, but he can’t seem to care about it much.

And then suddenly it’s _gone,_ and Josh is jerking away from the table, his eyes reeling wildly, Imani shouting his name as he lurches towards the door. Ethan stands without realizing what he’s doing and moves to follow, but Imani’s thin arm snaps out to stop him. He sees it coming the moment she thinks about doing it, and he could dodge around it easily, but he’s still a prisoner, and some part of him remembers that and cares enough that he stops.

“Maria!” Josh shouts, and why is he calling for _her,_ it doesn’t make any sense, why is his fear gone when his eyes have gone feral? Ethan tastes the ozone on his tongue still, stronger than ever, but he can’t tell if it’s coming from himself or Josh.

Three sets of footsteps and one set of wheels are moving towards them already, Ethan can tell. They were nearby, one of the rooms adjoining the hallway, most likely listening in, so they arrive quickly. Maria looks much like Josh does, only the arm around her keeping her upright, everything in her posture straining like she doesn’t know where to go. When she reaches Josh she holds out her hands and they clasp one another’s elbows, the man who’d been holding her (Malik, Ethan overheard his name earlier but he hadn’t been sure it was him until he sees Imani rush to him, abandoning Ethan in the room) stepping back to watch warily.

“Ashton just, they _stuttered,_ I couldn’t feel them for a second-“

“Ruth’s _gone_ , I can’t find her, I don’t know-“

“We have to go.”

The last one’s Tyler, xer eyes gone steely, sharp enough to cut Ethan if they’d landed on him. They haven’t, though, they’re focused instead on somewhere in the middle-distance, likely searching xer sixth sense for Ashton’s consciousness. Josh’s eyes don’t do that, don’t give anything away at all, but if Ethan’s instincts are right (the compatibility, the “when did you go online”) then he might be even more powerful than Ethan had thought.

“Yeah,” Josh says, wild eyes focusing on Tyler over Maria’s shoulder. Imani and Malik are watching the events like it’s some kind of movie, Malik’s arm gone around Imani’s shoulder as though he can protect her, when Ruth’s mind has disappeared (did they kill her? They wouldn’t have, the tower has no reason to, they don’t even know Josh could sense it) and Maria’s still trembling, and _there’s_ the fear he can’t feel from Josh.

They move as a unit, all five of them taking off quickly, and Ethan’s about to follow but as soon as he steps out from the room something metal and unforgivingly hard presses to his chest. He looks down in shock, staring at the barrel of a gun. Marco stares up at him, honey eyes about as far from sweet as it’s possible to be. “Nice try,” he says, “but you’re not leaving.”

Absently noting that he has just the faintest hint of an accent, Ethan calculates movements in his head. But Marco’s already got his finger on the trigger, and no matter how Ethan figures it he’d be shot before he’d be able to get away. “I…” he says, but what can he say to defend himself? He wasn’t planning on escaping back to the tower, but the man’s not a Guide, only a normal human, and he’ll have no reason to believe Ethan if he says that. And truth be told he _should_ have been trying to escape, it would have been the reasonable thing to do, but here he is. The only thought in his head had been to get to Josh, which is _beyond_ unreasonable.

He won’t admit that out loud even with a gun to his chest. Instead he steps back, slowly, allowing Marco to keep pace with him until he’s seated at the table again. The gun doesn’t waver from where it’s pointed at his chest, a place that’s sure to leave his lungs full of fragments of bone if not metal. Closing his eyes, Ethan dials his hearing up, tracks Josh’s footsteps until he gets in a car, and then he’s tracking his heartbeat, moving towards the tower with barely any pauses, somehow avoiding red lights and traffic alike. A treacherous piece of him hopes that Josh comes back quickly, that nothing happens to him.

A larger piece hopes that the tower captures him and he doesn’t fight it, that he instead realizes that Ethan isn’t brainwashed, isn’t crazy, and the tower _does_ stand for something just and right and good.

\------------

The entire car ride, Josh is only half paying attention to his surroundings, and even that’s a struggle. His mind keeps bending towards the empty space where Ruth had been, the strange lack of space that even absence doesn’t normally cause. Something in him is screaming that there is _someone there,_ that that someone must be Ruth because she’d been here only a second ago, people don’t disappear like that even when they _die,_ minds linger for at least a minute before they fade, _what the fuck happened?_

He had been talking to Ethan. Not interrogating him, talking. He had been wasting time while Ruth was in danger, and this was what he got for it; his hand clutched in Maria’s, worry running through them like a circuit. He doesn’t think he could let go of her if he tried, and he’s sure she’s the same way, so he’s glad at least that Malik waved Tyler away when xe seemed like xe was going to try to separate them. By the time they arrive one street over from the tower, the two feel welded together.

Tyler opens the rear car door with a _slam_ making Maria jump and Josh stare at xem owlishly. “Alright, asshole, we’re gonna need your help,” xe says, grabbing Josh’s shoulder. He’s keyed so high that xer steady determination seems to flow into his skin straight through the barrier of his clothes, along with a warmth he hadn’t known he’d needed. When had it gotten so cold?

“My help?” he asks, finally processing what Tyler had said through the sea of sensation he’s floating in. Xe rolls xer eyes, then shakes him abruptly, causing Imani to shout something cautionary behind xem. Neither xe nor Josh break their eye contact to look at her.

“Yes, your help,” xe says, xer tone low and strangely deadly, “I can’t hide you if you don’t let me, and frankly you’d be better at hiding yourself. Settle the fuck down before I try to force you and we all get our cover blown.”

Oddly, it’s then that Josh feels a burst of determination from Maria, prompting him to look back at her again. “Put the emotions in me,” she says, slurring her words around the way her mouth wants to turn down into a snarl. It’s earnest, but Josh doesn’t understand; you can’t just toss emotions into someone, and come back and retrieve them later. Feelings don’t work like that.

And then he realizes she means _vent,_ and his eyes widen. “You’ll zone,” he says, but even before it’s all the way out of his mouth he knows how she’ll answer. Watching the way her jaw clenches before she nods, the way everything in her screams to run and save Ashton and the way what remains of her brain function at the moment is telling her _this_ is how you save them, Josh knows his answer too.

It floods into her, wave after wave, his anger and fear and the crushing wave of not knowing what’s happening and having ignorance not be an option because the cost is too high but it’s _all he has and if he can’t fight past it Ruth will die there is no doubt in his mind anymore._ When he’s done Maria is swaying, everything but her sense of smell gone, dialed down into nothingness, and even what’s left is focused on only a single scent, coconut and rain hitting a hot surface, so faint and far away as to be nearly nonexistent. But it’s there.

“Let’s go,” Tyler says, pulling Josh away from where Maria sways in the seat. He feels empty, hollow now that he’s shouted the worst of it into Maria’s mind, but it leaves room for the focus he needs to crystalize. They have work to do, and if Maria won’t be able to come with them then Josh will just have to do her job for her. Ashton and Ruth are getting out of this alive, even if he has to do something truly reckless to ensure it.


	11. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, sorry for the late update... My mental health has been Killing Me lately, but luckily I've got this done, and I'm on track for 12 to be done on time next week as well. In other news, we FINALLY return to sexy stuff in this chapter! *Kicks Ethan and Josh* Don’t ask me why it took them so long to finally make out again, I don’t fucking know. On the plus side I’m pretty sure Josh is physically incapable of not being at least a _little bit_ kinky.

To Josh’s surprise they don’t take the entrance they’d gotten so much information from Ethan about, instead electing for the underground tunnel. Malik stays behind with Maria to make sure she’s safe, but Imani follows them, again surprising Josh. Walking to a grate in the street that appears to lead to the sewers, she and Tyler crouch side by side, straining to lift it. He would help, but his focus is consumed by the order Tyler had given, “make sure no one notices us.”

He’s broadcasting their invisibility in every direction, so intensely that if the road were busier he’d be worried about being hit by cars. This way, no one above them will be able to spot them from a window or helicopter, and when they drop into the tunnel they’ll go unnoticed. When they actually push the grate fully aside and jump, however, it’s empty. It’s also very obviously an actual sewer, and Josh is about to protest that this doesn’t look like a secret entrance, when Imani pulls out a small, plastic thing from her pocket, and clicks a button in the middle of it.

There’s no sudden rumble or screech of metal and stone moving, but half of the tunnel suddenly opens to something clean and white. This time there _are_ people on the other side, and Tyler tenses to run, but Josh catches xer arm and shakes his head. “They can’t notice us,” he says, not bothering to whisper. Xer face goes dark, hunger and something else on it, but he doesn’t have time to decipher why.

Imani walks forward quickly enough that the two of them have to jog to keep up with her longer legs, and she glowers over her shoulder at them, the expression almost cute if it wasn’t drawn tight with fear. “Hurry up,” she mutters, “the signal jammer won’t work for much longer.”

They race forward after that, the eerie, blank looks people adopt when they turn to face them accidentally barely registering on Josh’s radar. He’s hunting, searching for that odd _absence_ that was Ruth, and he’s shocked when he finds it in a different spot from where Ruth had been. Is she moving? Is she cloaked, and if so _how when not even an entire empathy-proofed building was enough to stop Josh’s senses?_

_Two hallways, stairs up to ground level, and Josh begins panting. True, he’s not used to running as much as he has been, lately, but this has more to do with the fact that they’re still passing people, and each time they do he sends out an extra burst of _We’re not here._ He might have to stop, though, because he’s not entirely sure it’s necessary and his head is threatening to pound again. He’d have stopped already except that they’re not to Ruth yet, and they need to make sure she’s safe before anything else._

_Abruptly, Tyler stops in front of him, forcing him to plant his heels to avoid crashing into xem. He doesn’t have the energy to look up at what xe’s looking at, though, so he keeps his head bowed and pants harder and pushes the suggestion, the demand, _You can’t see us._ Footsteps start down the hallway towards him, but they sound oddly soft, as though the feet they belong to are bare. Confused, Josh forces his head up and-_

_There she is. Her eyes are covered in the sheen of tears, her nose is bleeding in thick rivulets all down her front, her face has an oddly slack look. But she’s alive, unbound, it doesn’t look like they’ve beaten her beyond her bloody nose, and her shoes are missing but the rest of her clothing is intact and Josh _hopes.__

_“Ruth?” He says, but her eyes focus on Tyler, and though there’s no flicker of recognition, nothing relieved or confused or concerned for the way xe looks absolutely floored, they stay there. Josh realizes he’s let Ruth into the sphere of “people who can know we exist,” but he doesn’t want to kick her out of it, _she belongs here.__

_“Tyler,” she says, dead and monotone, and it should scare Josh but he’s still trapped in that hollow place where there’s only the determination to get her out and safe. “Ashton is this way,” she shuffles forward, down a side hallway, and they’re forced to follow at her more sedate pace, though Imani begins twitching. Ashton. Josh needs to get them out too, he knows it with a burning knowledge, but he longs to send Ruth out of the building first, to make sure she’s nowhere near this horrid place._

_By the time they make it to the cell, in a hallway that is so narrow it almost feels claustrophobic with so many people crammed in it, the first bunch of armed guards have already run past. They make Josh shudder, the sight of their guns superfluous with the knowledge that they’re trained Sentinels who can predict his movements from the smallest of muscle twitches and react accordingly to have him on the ground and winded in a second. Still, he can’t turn back now, so they gather around the room while Imani does something to the number pad beside it._

_Opening with a crackle and a creak, the heavy metal swings wide, releasing the thick stench of blood and urine and worse. It seems to be soaked into the walls, the floor, because despite the mostly pristine, uniform grey of the room it leaks from every surface. It’s only mostly pristine, though, because there’s a thin trail of blood leading to the door from a small puddle of it on the floor._

_A lot like the puddle that’s forming under Ruth’s feet the longer they stand there._

_“Up... stairs,” she says, slowly, as if it’s difficult. Her voice betrays no strain though, and they follow her, Imani now leaking trepidation like a faulty faucet. She leans towards Tyler and whispers something, but Josh can’t listen in on it. He’s too focused on their surroundings, amping up the _There’s nothing here_ signal until his own eyes water, and he thinks he and Ruth make quite the pair. Which of course makes him wonder how she knew where Ashton was being held, but he can’t wonder too much because fear is already trickling back into the hollow inside him, filling it slowly, surely._

_Once he’s noticed it, though, it’s like a damn breaking. The fear of losing Ruth, even now, to a bullet or recapture or the emotionless face; the fear of not being able to find Ashton, having to return to Maria without them; the fear of what Ruth fucking _did_ to cause herself to look like this. The fear of how easy it was to invade Ethan’s mind the way he’d never wanted to invade anyone’s._

__Ethan._ As soon as he thinks the name there’s a strange _pull,_ almost like what he’d felt when Ethan had tracked him so long ago, but this time it’s so faint he thinks he might have imagined it. It gives him an idea, though, an idea that makes him shiver all over, but he needs to do it. Reaching out with his mind, remembering the way his consciousness had flashed into Ethan’s all that time ago, he feels for the sandstone wall._

_It’s rough under his palm in a way that the real wall, when he braces his hand against it, isn’t. _Please,_ he says to the wall, only narrowly stopping his real lips from moving too. _Let me find them. You know what they smell like. Please, help.__

_For a moment the air itself seems to hold its breath, stale and hot and stagnant, and then there’s the faintest breeze, carrying a few grains of sand above the wall and above his head, and he doesn’t have time to think or reconsider. Clapping his hand on Tyler’s shoulder much the way xe had done to him, he says, barely feeling his tongue, “I know where they are. Get the others the fuck out.”_

_Xe stares at him with that same bizarre hunger, but they nod, and that’s all he needs. He starts running towards the scent of char and blood and coconut at full speed, his feet blessedly sure under him. Up one set of stairs, two, he knows where the camera blind spots are now, strangely. He still feels the warmth of Ethan’s mind against his, and it’s oddly comforting to have it even from his vantage point in the sky, so far removed from everyone. He doesn’t feel removed now._

_When at last he reaches the door he knows conceals them he can feel his own nose bleeding much the same way Ruth’s had been. To his relief this door doesn’t require any messing with a keypad to get into, and he sees why when he enters; Ashton lies on a gurney infuriatingly limp, eyes moving frantically behind closed eyelids, blood streaming down both cheeks from their nose just like Ruth’s. Hauling them up and over his shoulder in a feat of strength that, frankly, leaves him somewhat shocked, Josh looks around the room quickly. Only one nurse, so he simply punches her with the suggestion of unconsciousness, watching her crumple to the ground. She’ll be fine and will wake up in less than an hour, so he sets off, already feeling the burn in his arms._

_Before he’s even back at the tunnel, though, he can sense the barricade of soldiers in the way, waiting for the order to fire from someone far above him, likely watching a monitor, just as intensely focused as they are. He could get through, he thinks, but at the same time the warmth pushes closer to his mind and he sees that he doesn’t have to. Wheeling in place, he begins to charge away from the tunnel, toward an office that he opens without even having to look at the handle, knowing it so well, years of familiarity making it easy even when he has to crouch awkwardly to accommodate the way his arms are holding Ashton._

_The relief he feels when he sees that the room’s empty is so immense that he knows it’s not only his, but he doesn’t dwell in it, only stumbles forward, towards patch of wall that he knows will open if he moves this picture frame, and isn’t it ironic that something meant to help a Commander escape in the case of an attack is helping him now?_

_A small spiral staircase greets him when he forces his way through the narrow opening, rapping his elbow on the edge as he does. He ignores the stinging, tingling pain, instead focuses on maneuvering his way through the tight space with Ashton’s form hanging from him. They’re thinner than he is, neither muscle nor fat adorning their frame, but they’re taller and heavier, and he’s already exhausted. After a while there’s only the sound of his own, labored breathing echoing off the metal steps, covering Ashton’s gentler breaths. Occasionally there’s a quiet _plink_ as blood falls to the floor, either Josh’s or Ashton’s._

_When he nears what he thinks is the bottom of the stairs, though, he hears a voice. It’s low, gruff, and he recognizes the older man who he’d always seen with Ethan. At first he worries that he’s been seen and prepares to send the man into unconsciousness, but then he hears the actual words that the man’s saying. He sounds unsure, tired, a little bit embarrassed, and the odd combination doesn’t help explain any of what he’s saying. “I don’t know if you’re here, but I figured if you’re not leaving via the fucking tunnel you might be here. So, uh,” he takes a deep breath, and then his words feel like electricity shooting straight up through Josh’s feet. Bring him back, kid. He’s got allies here, even if he doesn’t know it.”_

_He doesn’t need to wait around and hear more; he simply repeats his invisibility to the man, over and over again, until he’s certain that he won’t even notice Josh opening the narrow exit and slipping through with Ashton. He doesn’t look directly at the man’s face the whole time, partly because the gloom of the stair makes it difficult to see, but also because he’s not sure he wants to see it again. Handsome, worn, and attached to some of the worst things that have happened to him in recent memory._

__Some of the best too, though,_ Josh reflects as he struggles away from the tower, to the winding maze of alleyways that make up the shadowy corners of the city. He doesn’t know his way around here as well as he knows the rest of it, but he can still make his way to where Maria and the others wait by the car easily enough. By the end of the journey he’s feeling light-headed, and though a piece of him argues that it must be exertion because there’s no way he’s lost enough blood through his nose to be this poorly off, the fact that it’s still not clotting doesn’t calm his nerves._

_The second the other’s spot him they’re rushing forward, Malik actually reaching for Josh as if he’s going to pick up both him and Ashton before Imani steps between them, a relieved smile on her face. Tyler reaches them first, though, and grabs for Ashton’s limp arm, pulling it so that Josh has to either dump them on the ground or follow. Xe slaps their hand to Maria’s chest, and Josh realizes that she’s still zoned, but unconscious as they are Ashton’s presence isn’t enough to help._

_Cursing, Tyler jerks Ashton’s arm hard enough that what little of Josh’s mind isn’t hazing over in exhaustion worries for the strain. He stumbles to follow xem, wondering absently why Malik hasn’t taken over carrying Ashton already, and then suddenly Ashton’s jerking, prompting him to drop them with a yelp. They hit the ground and groan, and there’s an answering groan, and then Josh hits the ground too, his knees aching with the suddenness._

_Ruth is sitting up, her hand cradling her head, a grimace blessedly on her face, twisting her lips. The blood no longer drips from her chin, which means it’s crusting and cracking there, but Josh doesn’t care because he’s smiling wide, tasting his own blood as it still flows. “Hey,” he says, and Ruth blinks hard before her eyes focus on him._

_“Hey,” she replies, smiling back, and then they’re hugging, he can feel the relief flowing from her, and it occurs to him that Tyler had made Ashton and Ruth touch, and for some reason it had worked when Ashton touching Maria hadn’t. All he cares is that he can feel Ruth’s presence again, she’s no longer an empty doll of a person, and he wants to crow with their victory._

_“How did you find me?” Ruth says, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her so warm. The others are all clustered around Ashton and Maria, talking in low voices, but rather than be worried about what they’re planning Josh finds himself feeling thankful for the moment of privacy, short as he knows it will be._

_Opening his mouth to answer, Josh hesitates. Was it his powers? Yes and no, because Ruth was the one who freed her body, he still isn’t sure how, but her _self_ had still been trapped even so. “Ethan,” Josh says, amazement in his voice. He doesn’t know what’s on his face but it makes Ruth’s twist, and then he’s rushing, “They moved Ashton, we couldn’t have gotten you back without them, and he tracked them down,” and then, again, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say it enough, “Ethan.”_

__

\------------

The wait after Josh leaves is very, very long. Marco’s attention never wavers far, but after about five minutes Ethan can hear how far away Josh and the others have gotten, and he gives up on ever catching up to them. He’s left sitting, waiting, hoping against hope that this will turn out in a way that somehow benefits both himself and Josh. Of course, as the minutes tick by and he hears them reach the tower, strains to scent the ebb and flow of Josh’s fear through the miasma of the city, his hope wanes into a thin sliver.

Every order that the tower officials give to help them first find, then track Josh and the others through his confounding empathy makes Ethan’s stomach sink, though he’s not sure why. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that tower Guides won’t be able to get through his shields, at least without hurting him, and so they _will_ hurt him, because they won’t realize that it won’t be beneficial. Despite the fact that it would be Josh’s fault, it doesn’t sit well with Ethan, and he knows that it’s because he’s inching closer to compromised with each moment he spends in Josh’s presence, but it’s hard to fight it when Josh isn’t even trying to persuade him.

He tries to shift his focus away, but Marco isn’t exactly striking up conversation, and the room is relatively barren. At one point a girl whose footsteps Ethan recognizes (gets along with Malik, is low ranking enough that she never discusses anything particularly interesting) knocks on the door, saying that she’s brought food for them, but Marco only opens the door a crack to allow her to pass the tray through to him, two bottles of water and turkey sandwiches weighing it down. As Marco wheels himself and the food back over Ethan analyzes his motions, realizes that he’s wasting no movement and begrudgingly thinks that he wouldn’t want to take him in a fight.

It’s long after the sandwiches and water have been consumed when it happens. Sudden fear like a thunderstorm in his sinuses, clearing them and forcing his focus to a man who’s far away from him, in a tower where Ethan belongs and he most definitely doesn’t. Unconsciously, Ethan grips the arm rests of his chair, knuckles bleaching white. He doesn’t know what to do, though, because even that small motion has Marco looking at him sharply, there’s no chance of him getting out of the room to actually _help._

Frustrated, Ethan tries to pinpoint what’s gone wrong, but there’s too much sound and scent polluting the area, he can’t be sure why Josh is on the verge of panicking. If only he were an empath, someone like Josh who could track people via their emotions, he thinks maybe he would be able to help, but-

And then he has his answer. It’s harder, now, when he can’t feel that cloud water and wind that he recognizes as Josh’s mind lingering inside his now, but he can still call up the memory of it, and with Josh so terrified it isn’t hard to sharpen his mind and focus on it, strain to yank as hard as he can on the thought, though he’s not even sure how to do that and is operating on things tower Guides have told him. For a long, long minute he thinks it didn’t work, and Josh’s fear only builds, but then he feels it.

Tentative, gentle brushes against his consciousness, heavy enough that he can feel it and it’s not like Josh circumventing his defenses, but light enough that it doesn’t hurt or threaten to break through his shields. He receives the plea as barely a whisper, but it’s there, and though his body feels locked in place, every joint stiff as if he was made of metal, his mind _bends,_ before he’s even decided to help, and he’s zeroing in on the smell of someone who he’d hunted once, and could hunt again, even across half a city’s worth of distractions.

Both Josh’s fear and his presence in Ethan’s mind fade slowly, but Ethan is left feeling dazed and confused. He _hates_ feeling confused. Why the hell did he do that?Is it because he didn’t want Josh to be captured? But he wouldn’t have been, if he’d only been smart enough to leave when it became obvious that Ashton was a lost cause. Was it because they were compatible? Was biology warping Ethan’s instincts? That answer doesn’t feel right either, and so he’s left fretting, his fingers twitching with the desire to fiddle with _something,_ but there isn’t anything for him to do and in the end he only succeeds in making Marco narrow his eyes suspiciously.

When at last the group arrives back from their impromptu mission to the sound of hurried greetings and orders, Ethan forces himself to relax, knowing that they’ll be back to requesting his information soon enough, and it will all go back to normal. At least he knows how to handle the interrogation, even if it is quite a bit different from what he’d been taught to expect. 

Except, of course, every time he thinks he understands Josh’s behaviors he’s proven wrong. The Guide hurries to the room where Ethan waits, sanguine scent hanging heavy around him, and he all but shoves Marco out of the room. “It’s fine,” he protests, “it’s fine, we’re fine, holy shit we’re _fine._ ” He sounds amazed, and Ethan barely restrains himself from commenting that if Josh had been so sure the mission would fail he shouldn’t have gone. These people aren’t his friends, he reminds himself, watching Marco leave.

It’s awfully hard to remember that, though, when Josh is staring at him with that same amazement, as though Ethan went from enemy to marvel while he was gone. “Holy shit,” he repeats. “You, you’re just- oh my gods. Can I kiss you?”

Ethan blinks, bewildered. “What?” He asks, his eyes flitting to Josh’s full lips. Josh had been near capture, or barring that, death, less than an hour ago. Was it an adrenaline rush? Ethan remembers seeing Sentinels like this after dangerous missions, high on the lingering excitement and in need of an outlet, and when he was younger he used to help the highest ranking of them, but it’s been so long that he flushes with the suggestion.

“You fucking- you’re too tall, get down here, _please,_ ” Josh says, both of his hands fisting in Ethan’s shirt, pulling on him as if he wants him to lean over. It’s true, Josh is so much shorter that even on his toes he can’t nearly reach Ethan’s mouth, but Ethan still hesitates, remembering the way he’d lost control before, when Josh had apparently allowed him to feel the effects of their compatibility.

“You aren’t going to use the compatibility again, are you?” He asks, and Josh looks away from his mouth (the way he’d been staring makes Ethan flush darker, but he needs to be the reasonable one here, since Josh clearly isn’t going to be).

“Fuck, no, nope, not going to do that. Can I kiss you or not?” He already sounds breathless, and in spite of the vehemence of his denial he’s still nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. Not wanting to test his patience further, Ethan doesn’t bother answering, instead simply leans down and seals their lips together. He can taste blood where it must have dripped into Josh’s mouth, but it doesn’t disgust him as much as he thinks it should.

\------------

The wreck of a Sentinel tastes like turkey and mayonnaise and cheap white bread, and it makes Josh laugh into the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away. Ethan helped save him. Ethan helped save _them._ He’s too godsdamn tall like this, Josh wants to push him to the bed and kiss him silly, but even the wave of elation currently washing away his logic doesn’t push him _that_ far.

Ethan’s a deliciously submissive kisser, with enough experience that he knows exactly how to suck on Josh’s tongue and when to lap at Josh’s lips, but as it drags on he begins to shiver as though he’s not used to kisses lasting this long, and it only makes Josh want it to be longer. Eventually they have to breathe, though, so they break apart, Josh’s nose brushing Ethan’s, unwilling to pull further back. “Oh, fuck me,” Josh breathes, spreading his hands flat against Ethan’s firm chest.

Tensing, Ethan begins to step away. “No, no not like that,” Josh says, and he knows he’s babbling but he can’t seem to control his tongue at the moment unless it’s sheathed in Ethan’s mouth. “Fucking, shit. Can I sit down? No sex, I swear, but christ my knees are about to buckle.” Ethan’s body relaxes again, and he allows Josh to lead them to the table, where he perches on the edge of it and tries to ignore how badly he wants to wrap his legs around Ethan’s waist when he steps close to kiss Josh again.

That Ethan has to lean _less_ with him sitting down is a bit disheartening, but he quickly forgets that fact when he’s got Ethan’s lip between his teeth, warming as he nips it. Beneath the turkey flavor there’s something quintessentially Ethan, subtle like lettuce but twice as fresh. It tempts him to drop his shields, just a few, because with a flavor that delicious they must be compatible, but he resists, knowing that neither of them will like the result if he doesn’t.

They kiss until Ethan’s breathing so hard through his nose that Josh takes pity on him and releases his lips in favor of mouthing at the side of his neck, his hands kneading Ethan’s pecs as he does so. Ethan groans, prompting Josh to dig his nails in, just slightly, wanting to hear more sounds. “J-Josh,” Ethan says, large hands resting on Josh’s shoulders but neither pulling him closer or pushing him away. “What are you, ngh, doing?”

His lips brushing the spot just under Ethan’s ear, Josh grins. “Thanking you,” he says, nipping Ethan’s earlobe. The motion earns him a high, surprised noise, and he can’t resist grinning.

“Thanking?” Ethan asks, his voice breaking on the second syllable in a way that makes Josh realize just how hard he’s gotten. “This isn’t u-usually the sort of thing that, ah, I mean to say,” Ethan shifts his weight between his feet, and Josh slides his hands down to press to Ethan’s stomach, resisting the urge to let them fall lower.

“It’s a weird reward?” Josh finishes for him as he trails his lips along Ethan’s jaw, his teeth scraping lightly when he’s done talking. It makes Ethan shiver again, and he decides it really shouldn’t hurt to give in to one of his instincts, so he spreads his legs and hooks his ankles around Ethan’s back, pulling him forward until their hips are nearly pressed flush at the edge of the table. Both of their breathing picks up another notch, but Ethan still manages to nod a confirmation.

“Weird, yes,” he says breathlessly, his hips conspicuously still in a way that Josh knows means he wants to move them badly but doesn’t want to cum in his pants like a teenager. “And why are you, I d-didn’t...” Every one of Ethan’s unfinished sentences is like honey down Josh’s throat, making him hungry for more.

Licking down the side of Ethan’s neck, Josh hums, letting him know he’s considering his response. “You did, though,” he says eventually, pulling his head away and drawing one hand up to cup Ethan’s cheek so that they can make eye contact. “You helped, Ethan. And I don’t care about your motives, fuck motives, you’re gorgeous and you helped me save them.”

As he spoke Ethan’s eyes had gotten wider and wider, his breathing had turned shallow. When he responds, though, he seems as surprised as Josh is by what he says. “Gorgeous?”

Twining his fingers through Ethan’s hair, Josh allows his smile to soften, knowing that it had turned predatory with his excitement. “Yep, really fucking gorgeous,” he confirms, tightening his grip on Ethan’s hair until he winces and his pupils grow that much larger.

“But-” Ethan swallows hard at the sharp tug Josh gave his hair, obediently tilting his head to the side again even as he tries to answer, “how can you say that, when y-you’re...”

Josh closes his eyes, taking a deep breath in through his nose. He knows already that Ethan has had partners who’ve been callous with him, he can push that aside and focus on making this good for his bizarre savior, he _will._ His free hand slips under Ethan’s shirt and traces the contours of muscles, absently sending his brain a notice that he needs to eat more. For all his bulk there’s not an ounce of fat on him, and Josh long ago learned better than to be envious of physiques like that.

When his fingers tease one of Ethan’s nipples he’s distracted by the delightful fact that Ethan _loves_ it, his entire spine arching towards the touch. Kissing along Ethan’s collarbone and wishing that he could see his face at the same time, Josh loosens his grip on his hair, instead trailing his nails in patterns on his scalp that he knows will send a warm tingling along the surface of his skin. Ethan begins gasping before long, and Josh digs the heels of his feet against the small of his back, encouraging him to _move._

For some reason, though, he resists, and his voice sounds almost choked behind the labored breathing. “P-please,” Ethan says, and Josh realizes that his hands are clenched on his shoulders tight enough to ache. “It’s t-too much.”

Worry pings through him, stilling his hands. Josh pulls far enough away to peer at Ethan’s face, taking in his glazed, hooded eyes, clearly not entirely in the room. “What do you want?” He asks, prompting Ethan to blink blearily, his mouth moving as though wants to shape words but isn’t sure how.

“Me?” He sounds more incredulous than anything, and what little of Josh’s mind isn’t occupied with how attractive he looks with his lips bitten red and puffy feels a pang at that. “I want t-to help.”

Frowning, Josh considers the request; all at once he unwraps his arms from around Ethan and unbuttons his pants, sliding down the zipper. Ethan’s gaze follows his hands, his lips slightly parted to accommodate his labored breaths, and when Josh pulls his cock from his boxers and Ethan licks his lips Josh moans appreciation. He doesn’t waste time, though, and his hands are steady when he reaches forward to undo Ethan’s pants as well, slapping away Ethan’s large hand at the last second when it goes down to touch him.

“Not yet,” Josh says, eyeing the way Ethan goes still with the order. He’s so eager to please, so _desperate_ for it, that it makes Josh’s cock twitch even as his mind shies away from the possibility of what made him that way. Josh simply hopes that he was predisposed to it, and he presses his hand against Ethan’s dick through his boxers, feeling the hard length against his palm. Ethan is _huge,_ and though he knows they won’t be fucking he can’t help but imagine it, something empty and yearning inside him salivating at the thought.

He only teases Ethan for a moment before pulling him free as well, too eager for more thorough foreplay. Their cocks press together, Ethan’s eyes glazing over with lust at the sight, and Josh bares his teeth. He wants so badly to sink them into the meat of Ethan’s shoulder, but really he shouldn’t be leaving undue marks on him, so he contents himself with capturing Ethan’s lips in his teeth and Ethan’s hand in his. He tugs their twined fingers between the tight press of their bodies, guiding Ethan until it becomes obvious that he gets the gist of what Josh wants.

After that he pulls his hand out from the tight space, allowing Ethan more room to move his, and brings both arms around Ethan’s shoulders, nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades. Shuddering, Ethan begins a quick pace, his wrist twisting expertly, his thumb rubbing over Josh’s head and smearing the precum gathering there. It’s already sticky and only getting stickier, Sentinel’s natural propensity for overproducing their fluids making it even better. If Josh had known what he was missing, he might have tried sleeping with Sentinels already (no, he wouldn’t have, nothing would have been worth getting captured, but this is _awesome_ ).

Ethan comes first, spilling thick and white between them, and Josh spares a moment to be mortified that both their shirts and their pants are ruined before the suddenly slick, tight heat of Ethan’s hand still moving around him pushes him over the edge too, the world going blinding white at the edges. Pleasure curves his back into a sharp angle, pressing his whole torso against Ethan’s where it’s bowed over him. He comes down slowly, Ethan’s wet hand sandwiched between their bodies, both of them trembling slightly with exertion caused by the awkward angle.

In the wake of his impulsive act embarrassment begins to encroach on Josh’s afterglow, but he ignores it with a stubbornness borne of years of one night stands and emotional detachment. Disentangling himself from Ethan, he looks at the state of his clothes, wrinkling his nose at the prospect of asking Tyler for more clothes after this. It’s an even bet whether xe will tease him or be genuinely angry about it, and he’s not eager for either result.

He ends up barely having the time to tuck his now soft dick into his clothing before the door bangs open, though, a mortified Imani and determined-looking Tyler behind it. “Get to medical right the fuck now,” xe says, grabbing Josh’s (thankfully clean) hand and dragging him. “And no, you cannot change first.”

“I’ll,” Imani looks between Josh and Ethan, her face making it clear that she’d like for the Earth to swallow her now please, even if her emotions hadn’t. “I’ll get you a change of clothes.”


	12. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter... was so hard to write... here's to hoping my mental health gets better soon, b/c this is not a good time lol.

True to her word, Imani brings him a replacement t shirt and jeans before too long, and though she stays guarding the door while he changes she leaves it blessedly closed. Ethan has been in situations before where people have seen him in worse positions, but they were usually people who were planning on joining in; somehow, having someone unrelated see him is so much more humiliating. He dresses as quickly as he can, calling through the door “I’m decent,” when he’s done so that she knows it’s safe to send someone in again.

He’s surprised when, instead of another mook, she walks in herself. She’s chewing on her nails again, and Ethan spares a moment to be thankful that she has a penchant for peppermints, because brushing alone isn’t enough to cover the spit smell people like that usually carry around with them. She sits down, on the table in nearly the same spot where Josh had sat, and Ethan _doesn’t_ blush, his ears are just warmer than usual because he still has his hair covering them.

“So,” Imani says, swinging her legs like a nervous kid. “Josh said you helped get Ruth and Ashton out of the tower?”

Grimacing, Ethan sits on the bed, reluctant to return to a chair he knows is intended for interrogation. “Yes,” he says, as shortly as he can. If he could have avoided admitting it he would have, but for once he thinks it would have sounded worse out of Josh’s mouth.

Then Imani surprises him again, by tilting her head and smiling, brushing dangling cornrow braids behind her shoulder, and asking “How?”

If anything, he’d been expecting a “why,” so he’s left floundering, staring at Imani until her smile diminishes and she starts to fidget. “I mean, if you’re not sure that’s fine, but I was wondering,” she says.

“Josh,” Ethan starts, not wanting to wait too long again and have her simply walk out (the room is just so boring when he’s alone in it, that’s all). “Sort of... borrowed my sense of smell.”

Wholly inadequate as the explanation is, Imani still nods, smile reappearing. “Josh pretty much said the same thing in the car ride over,” she confirms, “but like, how did he do it? He said it was like you leant him your senses?”

“Well,” Ethan says, hating that he has to use the filler word but knowing that if he doesn’t he’ll stay silent for too long again, “he requested that I help him. I simply nudged him towards the sense that was best suited for it, given that I-” Ethan bites his own tongue, feeling the words on it that had almost spilled into the air, _given that I’ve hunted Ashton before._

Imani seems to have missed the memo, though, because she only nods again, this time contemplative instead of encouraging. “You know,” she says, “I can read all the biology textbooks I want, but they’re never quite the same as hearing it from the people who do it.” Grinning at the perplexed quirk of Ethan’s eyebrows, she hops down, landing with dainty grace that seems at odds with her frequent hesitation. “With everything that’s happened, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about interrogations for the rest of the day, but just in case I’m gonna talk to Tyler, alright?”

Even knowing that he looks like a dumbstruck fish isn’t enough to make Ethan close his mouth. _What?_ But before he can formulate the question into something coherent Imani’s gone, closing the door behind her. Interrogations or no, Ethan’s still pretty sure that he still isn’t allowed to simply roam free in the hallways, so he doesn’t follow her, much as he wants to for a moment.

\------------

The one universal constant seems to be that medical personnel are impossible to phase. The man had only barely raised a single eyebrow at Josh’s appearance, and had promptly dismissed his semen-sticky clothing and gone on to the examination. Which, in and of itself, didn’t hold many surprises for Josh. The only thing that had shaken him at all was when he’d heard exactly how much blood he’d lost; he hadn’t realized you could even bleed that much from your nose.

He’s allowed out with only a warning not to exert himself so much any time soon, though, and then he races to his room as quickly as he can, finding his own suitcase on the bed, to his surprise. Opening the olive-green and fraying thing, he surveys his clothes, wondering when and who had gotten his stuff from his place. Resolving to ask Imani later, he tosses the wrecked loaner clothes in the trash as a minor form of vengeance and pulls on comfortable jeans, a t shirt for a band he’s never listened to, a sweat shirt, and a flannel shirt. When it’s all on he feels more like himself, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.

Just because he’d bothered to make sure Ethan was both consenting and _capable of consenting_ this time around, doesn’t mean that it was exactly... the best thought out of plans. The thought that he’s going to have to discuss it with Ethan _again,_ though, and that it’s likely to be just as frustrating and saddening as last time, is a bit too much for him to handle at the moment. So instead he hunts for Ruth, finding her unconscious in a medical room. She’s only sleeping, though, so he pokes his head in for less than a second before he hurries out, not wanting to disturb her rest.

That leaves him adrift, though, and he ends up wandering the halls somewhat aimlessly until the tantalizing scent of cigarette smoke finds him. He can’t remember the last time he had a smoke, and so when he finds Marco in a large, empty room that appears to be the cafeteria, smoking out an open window, he barely hesitates in walking up to him and asking, as casually as he can, “Spot me a cigarette?”

Marco gives him a considering stare, long enough that Josh begins to worry that he’s not going to give him one, but in the end he holds up the carton and Josh grabs the small roll of paper and chemicals with no small amount of relief. Marco lends him his lighter, too, and then they sit side-by-side in silence, Josh relishing the feeling of carcinogens burning through his throat once more. Of course, it has to end eventually, and when he’s about halfway done with the cigarette Marco says, “Heard your boyfriend helped with the mission, today.”

So much about that statement is wrong, but Josh resists the urge to say _he’s not my boyfriend_ like a middle schooler and instead shrugs, inhales deeply like he is in the least amount of hurry possible. “Yep,” he holds the cigarette between two fingers as he speaks so he can pop the “p.” Marco stares out the window, not even glancing at his face. “He led me straight to Ashton, let me piggyback on his senses or some shit.”

At last he gets a reaction from Marco; a low whistle that’s half sarcastic, but only half, and Josh can appreciate the ridiculousness of the statement enough that he doesn’t feel the least bit critical of the genuine part. Before today, he’d have thought that what he and Ethan did was impossible. He’d also have thought that what Ruth and Ashton did was impossible, but, well, they’re not even entirely certain what Ruth and Ashton did yet, given how tired the two had been even after regaining consciousness, so it doesn’t do to theorize too much about it.

“Think he’s gonna join up?” Marco asks eventually, when his cigarette has burned entirely out and Josh’s is starting to get worryingly low.

“Nah,” Josh replies, no hesitation this time. “He’s got a massive fucking boner for the tower. I’m still not sure why he helped us today, since as far as we can tell it wasn’t a trick.”

“He’s got a massive fucking boner for more than the tower,” Marco says, and though he still doesn’t glance up at Josh he has a feeling he can tell exactly what shade of ruddy his cheeks turn at that comment. He doesn’t argue, though, and eventually Marco drops his hands to his wheels, at last making eye contact with him. “Don’t use it against him,” he says, oddly serious. And then he leaves Josh standing alone with a barely-there cigarette and a cold breeze through the window.

In the end, Josh snubs out the embers against the lid of a trash can and then bins it. He begins to hunt for Tyler, only to find himself pulled up short when xe’s already headed his way. He _could_ make it easier on xem, but xe’s not exactly been endearing xerself to him lately, so he instead lounges against the wall by the window, wishing for his phone back to complete the picture of lazy disregard.

“Hey asshole,” xe says, standing with xer arms crossed in front of him, smiling lopsidedly. He wonders what put xem in the good mood, but instead of asking he simply smiles back, tobacco taste lingering on his tongue.

“Hey to you too,” he says. “So, what’s on the menu for today? More interrogation, searching Ruth and Ashton for trackers again...?”

An exaggeratedly rueful expression crosses Tyler’s face, making him snort. “Sadly, no. Imani ordered a fucking break for the rest of the day, which means you’re in luck. Well, sort of. The tower officially hates your guts, so we’re going to officially love them.”

“What.” he says, flat, amusement evaporating.

“Come here loser, we’re going shopping,” xe says, turning and striding out of the room without waiting to make sure he does as xe says. Grumbling, he follows, tugging his flannel shirt closer around him despite the fact that it’s warmer further from the window.

“Shopping” ends up meaning “putting in the orders for a false identity, getting a burner to tide him over until he can get a proper cell again, and otherwise making Joshua Kendrick disappear.” Which is all well and good, but the longer it goes on it makes Josh nauseous, discussions of haircuts and dyeing and whether or not it’s safe to wear his own godsdamn clothing. Eventually Imani pulls Tyler away to work on something else, leaving Josh alone in a room full of computers with Maria, who had been helping transfer what little money he had in the bank to a third party account.

Before the door even finishes closing he’s slumping into a chair beside Maria, passively allowing first her mild alarm, and then her sympathy to wash over him in an increasingly familiar wave. “Long day, huh,” she says, leaning back in her own chair.

“Yeah,” Josh says, rubbing his face with one hand. “Is Tyler a fucking robot, or something? Xe acts like xe can just plug xerself in and fuck sleep.”

Chuckling quietly, Maria answers, “Something like that.” He raises one of his eyebrows as high as he can, allowing his incredulity to show loud and clear, and she chuckles again. “It’s that thing, that some kids on the internet are into? Otherkin.”

Normally it’s easy to forget that Maria’s older than most of the rest of them, but this reminder comes in a form that makes him chuckle in return. “Oh, right,” he says, and then he rubs his face again, his eyes feeling crusty. What the hell time was it, anyway?

“Right,” Maria says, sounding as though she’s made up her mind about something. She stands, brushing off her pencil skirt primly despite the fact that there’s nothing on it as far as Josh can tell. “Off to bed with you. It’s time someone reminded Tyler that we’ve all had a very, very long day.”

Looking at her now, Josh can see the marks of exhaustion as clear on Maria’s face as they are on his own, in the bags that have only grown darker under her eyes and the defeated hunch of her shoulders. They won today, he reminds himself, but it’s so easy to forget when Ruth and Ashton are still sleeping presences barely there in the back of his mind. Relieved, he claps his hand on Maria’s shoulder, saying a short “Thank you.” It’s all he can muster at the moment.

Even though it’s barely been two hours since he changed into his clothes, he is absolutely not going to sleep in them. Locking the door and stripping down to a t shirt and boxers is more freedom and comfort than he’s had in days, now, and he’s going to savor it damn it. If it keeps his hands busy until he collapses to the bed, sleep pulling at his eyelids before he’s even horizontal, then all the better.

He sleeps long and deep and dreamless, but when he wakes up he feels anything but rested. Every inch of him is sore, his head pounding like he’d gone on a bender the night before, except without any of the fun memories. He sits up slowly, reflecting that even the fun parts of the day before were, in hindsight, not necessarily his... proudest moments.

Sleep seems to have washed away even the lingering sense of victory he’d clung to, so he’s left with nothing but strained muscles that only barely sooth under the hot spray of the shower in the bathroom adjoining his room. At least it’s a private one; he’s always hated having to bathe communally. Something about it made it different from when he felt eyes clinging to him in clubs or in bedrooms, made it less flattering and more clinical, like being a lab rat.

When he’s finished he goes through the rest of his morning routine on automatic, taking extra long brushing his teeth because, now that he’s focusing on it, he thinks he might still be able to taste lingering copper and iron from blood. If the dawdling also has the effect of making Malik appear at his door and leave him no time to sit and twiddle his thumbs while he waits for someone to retrieve him like a kid left at school, well, that’s just bonus.

“Ruth and Ashton woke up,” Malik says as Josh rinses his mouth one final time, savoring the minty freshness that replaced stale cigarette and blood. “They were worried about each other, so they’ve been moved to the same room, but they’re waiting for you to arrive before they properly explain anything. Which is seriously pissing Tyler off, by the way, so you should probably hurry up soon.”

Grinning at the mirror, knowing Malik can see it, he says, “Oh no, pissing Tyler off? We better get our asses in gear then.”

Malik only rolls his eyes, not dignifying that with a proper response. The two of them make their way to a section of the building that Josh has figured out is reserved for medical personnel and their visitors, and it occurs to him that this building is much better populated than the last one, given the number of people they walk past on the way there. Just how big is BETA, anyway? The question is hard to focus on, though, when he’s staring at Ruth’s face, still slightly paler than it should be but smiling at him, wan and tired and fond.

“Password?” She says, sharp eyes catching the way he’d hesitated on the doorstep. Josh laughs but can’t bring himself to play along, the lingering pain behind her eyes echoing his and reminding him too much of how he’d failed her. She got out safely, yes, but she wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place if it hadn’t been for him.

“How you doing?” He says instead, sitting at a chair on her bedside that appears to have been pulled up specifically for him. He pointedly ignores Tyler tapping xer foot between Maria and Ashton’s beds, and politely ignores the way Maria’s practically bowed over Ashton’s bed, her curly hair a wreck as though she’d rushed straight here after getting dressed in the morning. She probably did.

“I’ve been better,” Ruth says, poking his nose with the tip of one finger. “But I’m glad to be out of that hellhole. The shit they said Josh, you would not _believe._ ”

Irony makes his lips twist upwards. “I think I would,” he says, and Ruth’s nose wrinkles, but she gives him a considering look.

“Maybe you would,” she concedes, and then opens her mouth as if to say more, but Tyler’s patience finally runs out, despite the way Malik has his hand on xer shoulder.

Clapping xer hands together to draw everyone’s attention, xe says, “Alright kiddos, status report, what the fuck happened back there.”

Ruth stares at Tyler with such incredulity that he can’t help but laugh a bit. “Yeah,” Josh says, “I had the same reaction.” Xe clears xer throat, and he blinks at xem innocently.

“I...” Ashton says, and Josh realizes with a start he’s never heard them speak before. It’s throaty, hoarse in a way that he’s not entirely sure is from the lingering strain of the day before. “I was in danger of cracking under the pressure of their interrogation, and I was running out of time. I requested that Ruth...”

Looking closer, Josh realizes that their arms are covered in bandages. The rest of their body is under the sheets, but he wonders if they’re very badly injured, guilt running through him with the memory of the way he’d dumped them on the ground so carelessly. But then Ruth finishes the trailed-off sentence, making him forget them entirely. “I opened my mind,” she says, casual like it happens every day.

“Oh!” Tyler exclaims, clapping xer hands again as xe bursts into laughter that reminds him far too much of the day he’d walked into the hotel with Ethan. Malik seems to finally give up on keeping any semblance of control over xem, stepping back and leaning against the wall instead. “Oh, this is _great!_ ”

There are so many words on the tip of Josh’s tongue that they’re canceling each other out, leaving him with wide eyes staring at everything and unable to process it fully, stalled out somewhere around Ruth’s frizzy hair. Maria stands and takes Ruth’s hands in her darker ones almost without him noticing, her heartfelt “Thank you,” burning in his ears.

Opening a Guides mind means removing every shield they have. Not just the constructed ones, but even the inborn one that everyone has, the thing that keeps your mind separate from the rest of the world. Most Guides can’t do it by sheer merit of not being able to find the damn thing, but if you’re weak enough then even maintaining that slim separation takes some effort. Ruth _could do it_ , and that’s the worst part. “You could have died,” he says, quiet, and then louder because he thinks Ruth might not have heard, “you could have died!”

The entire room goes silent for a second, even Tyler’s delight fading somewhat at the stunned horror in his voice. “Josh,” Ruth says quietly, stern in a way she knows is more soothing than kindness would be for him, “I’ve told you how weak I am. There was no chance of it killing me, not really. And if it hadn’t worked it probably wouldn’t have strained me much, cause it would’ve only lasted a second.”

“But it did,” Ashton says, and there’s a happiness in their voice that Josh can’t stand to hear right now, when it could have come at the expense of Ruth’s _life._ “And we... shared minds.” Few as the words are, they make Josh want to beat his fists on Ashton’s broken body, see how much further it can go before it cracks down the middle and splits open, because they’d risked pushing Ruth out of her own body, risked killing her personality, her love of chocolate and the way she sucked at flirting but girls would fall at her feet anyway and _all of it._

Tyler’s laugh reappears, and Josh decides he’s really starting to despise it. “Holy fuck, this is great,” xe says, melodramatically wiping a tear from xer eye. “Seriously, tell me about it. Can you do it again? Say yes, please, oh my fucking god.”

“I don’t... think so,” Ashton says, looking askance at the same time as Ruth looks at them. It’s somewhat unsettling, but when it prompts Josh and Maria to do the same thing with one another he doesn’t miss the irony. “It was... difficult. And I think there will be more consequences to it than we’ve realized.”

Ruth winces, and it’s like a dagger to Josh’s heart. “Yeah, and anyway I don’t think I’m gonna want to join you guys,” she says. Relief floods heady through his veins, but it’s chased away with ice water a moment later. “After all, you took Josh on that mission yesterday, and like, I get it, he’s a big boy who can handle himself. But that was fucking dangerous, and I might not be able to remember it all that well but I don’t think he had a gun; you took him into that mess basically defenseless.” The whole room is holding its breath, it feels like, as she turns to him with her soft, soft brown eyes. “I know we can’t go back to our old shit, but they can find us somewhere to lay low, right? You don’t have to side with them, Josh.”

“Is he not?” asks Ashton, at the same time as Maria says “You didn’t tell her?” and Tyler won’t stop. Fucking. Laughing.

“We didn’t send him in defenseless,” Malik says, low and calm and cool, cutting through the quagmire of noise. “He’s a very powerful Guide, and was perfectly capable of taking care of himself without a weapon. We would not abandon one of our own to die in the tower.”

As pale as she’d already been, Ruth’s face bleaches bone-white. “Oh, fuck you,” she says, her eyes shining with tears like they’d been at the tower, only now her face is animated and it’s so much worse. “The tower tried to make me swallow the same shit, and I’m not falling for it. Josh, stop fucking lying to them to get them to like you, it’s not nice.”

Something deep inside his castle is cracking, the foundation maybe, set into the cloud so firmly that he’d thought it would never shake. But here it is, sending loud, booming sounds through the whole building, forcing the stone to shift, the cloud to try to support the weight of a fantastical structure it should never have been supporting in the first place. In his greenhouse, two small balls roll along the suddenly tilted ground, cloud and plastic.

“Ruth, I’m a shit lier,” he says, quiet, pained. Her eyes flicker over his face desperately, as if searching for the tells she thought she knew so well. “And I. I never did tell you why dad snapped, did I?”

It’s a low blow, and he knows it. Remind her of the tragedy that even she couldn’t sooth over, make her feel like Josh was entitled to keeping this one thing from her, even though in hindsight it was stupid, so stupid, she had told him so much and he had returned the favor with lie after fucking lie, over and over again, and his castle is still shaking like there’s an earthquake in the sky.

“Leave,” she says, as quiet as he had been. “I just. I need some time to process this.” He scrambles to his feet to obey, knowing even now that she’ll want to talk to him again soon and clinging to that, but either he’s not fast enough or she meant more than him, because she repeats “leave.”

Except she didn’t say it on her own. Ashton had said it too, older voice twining with hers, and Josh freezes for a moment to stare. But years of being conditioned to obey Ruth’s orders when they’re delivered in that tone forces him to start moving again, even if everyone else seems to have turned to stone. He runs from the room, not even bothering to lie to himself about the fleeing that it is.

Racing through the halls, Josh heads downwards, towards the room he can feel brimming with Ethan’s alarm, no doubt having scented his fear already. He tries to push the door open, but it doesn’t budge, obviously locked; he curses and pulls out the keys Tyler had given him the day before, his hand shaking just enough to make them jangle together noisily. With minimal difficulty he finds the right one, unlocking the door and slamming through it, closing it behind him immediately.

“What’s-” Ethan starts, but Josh shakes his head and he immediately quiets. It’s a far cry from the man who’d looked at him like he’d been a cockroach just a few days ago.

“Never mind it,” Josh says, and then he changes the topic because it’s the one thing Ethan might actually find distracting enough to _not mind it._ “We need to talk about yesterday.” If Josh is solving this problem then it feels less like he’s ignoring the others, and at least with Ethan staring at him his castle feels more steady, if still tilted topsy-turvy.

Sitting back down on the bed he’d been on before Josh’s sudden entrance had made him jump to his feet, Ethan nods, looking surprisingly resigned. “Which part of yesterday?” He asks wryly, and Josh barks a surprised laugh.

“Tyler’s gonna want to be there for the ‘helping the idiot not get himself killed’ part,” Josh points out, making Ethan huff a tired laugh at the impromptu title. “We need to talk about the making out and humping like horny teenagers part.”

Resignation gives way to puzzlement on Ethan’s face, and Josh tries not to groan. If Ethan’s sex education had been any worse, he would have been raised in a fucking cave by a bunch of men who wanted him to believe women couldn’t orgasm. “There isn’t much to talk about, then,” Ethan says, “you were riding an adrenaline high, and I wanted to help. That’s all.”

“No,” he replies, sitting on the damned interrogation table, staring at the ground so that he won’t notice the way the tight shirt stretches over Ethan’s muscles. He’s sick and tired of having to contradict Ethan like this. “I mean, I was riding a high, a little bit, and I remember the wanting to help part,” he comforts himself with the thought that Ethan likely blushes harder than him at that memory, “but I want to talk about what it means.”

“Um,” Ethan says, somewhere between stunned and- chagrined? “If you’re implying that you’d consider a relationship with me, I think that’s. Ah, ill-advised, to say the least.”

Sighing heavily, Josh smiles at Ethan, trying not to let it show how utterly exhausted he is. “Not what I meant, but I’m flattered,” he says, and he does have to admit that the slight redness at Ethan’s ears when they peek out from under his hair is kind of adorable. “I mean, I... I wouldn’t just make out with anyone at random. Even high on adrenaline and the fact that we got Ruth back.” _For all the good it did me,_ he finishes in his head.

Ethan waits patiently for Josh to order the words in his head. “You helped save her, and I know you didn’t do it for my sake, okay, I get that, but it still meant a lot to me. And I don’t want to have a relationship, fuck but that’s never worked for me before, but I do like you, like as a person, and I don’t want to just take advantage of your shitty attitude.”

Bristling, clearly thrown off by what Josh had said, Ethan glares. “You couldn’t take advantage of me if you tried,” he says, “not without the compatibility, and my attitude is not ‘shitty.’ It’s practical. If you’re done insulting me, kindly leave the room.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Josh says, then sighs, knowing he’s being defensive. Running a hand through his snarled curls, he tries a different tact. “You don’t seem like you’ve had very many good experiences, is all. And I saw your back, so don’t pretend like you’ve never been hurt before. I want to... I dunno, make sure that you don’t just think of me as another dick who wants to fuck you cause you’re pretty and you’re there.”

“I was punished because I made major mistakes during a mission which endangered my companions,” Ethan says, absentmindedly correcting Josh while he chews through something else in his head. “But I have been hurt, yes.” It’s strange to hear him admit it, but it’s about as far from surprising as a thing can get. “I don’t think you’re like the others though.”

Josh presses his fingers to his temples, but he still allows himself a small smile at that. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he says, more sadness leeching into his tone than he’d like. “Cause clearly the two of us think of dicks pretty differently.”

Ethan doesn’t respond to the joke, weak as it had been. His gaze seems turned inwards, and when he speaks it’s halting, not unsure but considering each word carefully before he says it. “After the first time, you said that what you were doing was... aftercare. I enjoyed it, though I’m still not sure why. And while I admit that it is in neither of our best interests to get attached to one another, I also know that my behavior yesterday makes it clear that, even before we, um, did that again, I already thought of you as a person who at the very least is worth protecting.”

 _What the hell do you even say to that?_ Josh tries not to gape, or at the very least not to let his mouth hang open like some dumbstruck imbecile. He gropes for a response in his mind, but his sharply tilted castle makes it hard to find words, so what he ends up blurting is not at all what he’d wanted to say, “Does that mean that you’d want to do it again?”

Eyes flicking to the door before returning to Josh’s face, Ethan’s cheeks flush bright, but he nods. It does nothing to help Josh’s sudden speechlessness. Ethan is a prisoner, _his_ prisoner, and he still wants to be put in that vulnerable position, his stomach and more bared for Josh to take, even if he admits that it’s not something he should want he _still wants it._ Unbidden, the memory of Ethan’s hands raised submissively above his head flits through his mind, awakening a hunger he didn’t know he had in him.

More than hot, though, Josh knows it’s worrisome. He tends to use sex to distract himself from things going wrong the same way he uses booze, and he knows that as much as Ethan is putting himself at risk here Josh is risking himself as well. And that brings to mind what Tyler would say; Tyler, who for all xer infuriating smugness is undeniably smart, a good coordinator, a powerful Guide who would use their connection against both of them if xe thought it went beyond the physical.

There’s no one saying it has to go beyond the physical, though, and it’s tempting the same way his disgusting cancer sticks are tempting. “Do you know what a safeword is” He asks, and finds it disturbingly easy to turn the greater part of his brain off as he does. This, he knows how to deal with. This, he can enjoy, even if nothing else in the world is good or safe or fun anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [main](http://ptsdkvothe.tumblr.com) or [writing](http://burningbrokenantlers.tumblr.com) blogs for updates/teasers/other writing!! I do not write on a schedule, but I'll try to get updates out once a week (on Fridays).


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